THE 

BRIARY-BUSH 


A  Novel;,  I ;. 


By 

Floyd  Dell 


New  York 

Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  October  31,  1921 
Second  Printing,  November  1921 


PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OP   AMERICA 


i 


TO 

S.  A.  TANNENBAUM,  M.D., 

EXPLORER    OF    THE    DARK 
CONTINENT  OF  THE  MIND 


344152 


"Oh,  the  briary-bush 

That  pricks  my  heart  so  sore! 

If  I  ever  get  out  of  the  briary-bush 

I'll  never  get  in  any  more!" 

— Old  Song 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE :  COMMUNITY  HOUSE 

CHAPTER 

I  FELIX  DECIDES  TO  CHANGE  His  CHARACTER  3 

II  "BoN  VOYAGE!"  9 

III  PLANS  22 

IV  SURPRISES  28 

V  THE  STRUGGLE  FOR  EXISTENCE  37 

VI  A  GUIDE  TO  CHICAGO  47 

VII  WORK  AND  PLAY  52 

VIII  ROSE-ANN  GOES  AWAY  62 

BOOK  TWO :  CANAL  STREET 

IX  How  TO  SPEND  ONE'S  EVENINGS  69 

X  THE  DETACHED  ATTITUDE  75 

XI  AN  ADVENTURE  IN  PHILOSOPHY  83 

XII  BACHELOR'S  HALL  89 

XIII  IN  HOSPITAL  99 

BOOK  THREE:  WOODS  POINT 

XIV  HEART  AND  HAND  105 
XV  PRE-NUPTIAL  108 

XVI  CLIVE'S  ASSISTANCE  114 

XVII  CHARIVARI  121 

XVIII  THE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  STATE  OF  ILLINOIS  131 

XIX  TOGETHER  134 

XX  "THE  NEST-BUILDING  INSTINCT"  143 

BOOK   FOUR:   FIFTY-SEVENTH    STREET 

XXI  ADVANCEMENT  155 

XXII  MAINLY  ABOUT  CLOTHES  162 

XXIII  A  BARGAIN  IN  UTOPIAS  170 

XXIV  STUDIO  176 

XXV  ST.  GEORGE  OF  THE  MINUTE  180 

XXVI  WHAT  ROSE-ANN  WANTED  187 

XXVII  PARTIES  197 

XXVIII  A  FATHER-IN-LAW  201 

XXIX  INTERLUDE  AT  MIDNIGHT  207 

XXX  FATHERS  AND  DAUGHTERS  210 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

XXXI  MORE  OR  LESS  THEATRICAL  215 

XXXII  DUTY  224 

XXXIII  A  PARABLE  231 

XXXIV  JOURNEYS  235 
XXXV  CIVILIZATION  244 

XXXVI  "WE     NEEDS    MUST    KNOW    THAT    IN    THE    DAYS    1O 

COME"  247 

XXXVII  SYMBOLS  249 

XXXVIII  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  FELIX  FAY  254 

XXXIX  A  DATE  ON  THE  CALENDAR  259 

XL  CELEBRATION  264 

BOOK  FIVE:  GARFIELD  BOULEVARD 

XLI  CHANGES  271 

XLII  AN  APPARITION  275 

XLI  II  NOCTURNE  280 

XLIV  AUBADE  292 

XLV  FOURSOME  297 

XLVI  THE  REHEARSAL  307 

XL VI I  THE  FORTUNATE  YOUTH  312 

XLVIII  DREAM-TRYST  317 

XLVIX  A  MATTER  OF  CONVENTION  322 

L  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD  330 

LI  "BlENFAITS   DE  LA  LUNE*'    334 

LII  SLEEPLESS  NIGHTS  341 

LIII  Two  LETTERS  348 

LIV  THE  GOD  AND  THE  PEDESTAL  353 

BOOK  SIX :  WILSON  AVENUE 

LV  THE  CONSOLATIONS  OF  PHILOSOPHY  363 

LVI  EULENSPIEGEL   37! 

LVII  THREE  DAYS  380 

LVIII  RENDEZVOUS  385 

LIX  UNANSWERED  QUESTIONS  394 

LX  A  LEAVE-TAKING  397 

LXI  Two  MEN  Discuss  A  GIRL  401 

LXII  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  408 

LXIII  IN  PLAY  416 

LXIV  IN  EARNEST  422 


Book  One 
Community  House 


I.  Felix  Decides  to  Change  His  Character 


CHICAGO! 
Felix  Fay  saw  with  his  mind's  eye  the  map  on  the 
wall  of  the  railway  station — the  map  with  a  picture 
of  iron  roads  from  all  over  the  middle  west  centering  in  a 
dark  blotch  in  the  corner. 

He  was  sitting  at  a  desk  in  the  office  of  the  Port  Royal 
Daily  Record,  writing  headings  on  sheaves  of  items  sent 
in  by  country  correspondents. 

John  Hoffman  has  finished  his  new  barn. 

Born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Elbert  Hayes  last  Wednesday 
a  fine  ten  pound  boy. 

Miss  Edythe  Brush  has  returned  to  the  State  Normal 
for  the  fall  term. 

And  so  on. 

Felix  wrote  at  the  top  of  the  page,  Wheaton  Whittlings. 
A  rotten  heading — but  it  would  have  to  do.  He  yawned, 
and  then  stared  unseeingly  at  the  next  page. 

He  was  not  thinking  about  those  news-items.  He  was 
thinking  about  Chicago.  .  .  . 

A  year  ago,  he  had  determined  to  leave  Port  Royal  forever 
— and  go  to  Chicago.  ',  *•',;•  \  '  '- 

But  here  he  was,  still ! 


He  had  hoped,  a  year  ago,  to  find,  in  the  excitement  of  a 
new  life  in  Chicago,  healing  for  the  desperate  hurts  of  love. 
If  only  he  had  gone  then !  .  .  . 

But  he  hadn't  had  the  money  to  buy  a  railway  ticket. 

He  had  taken  this  job  on  the  Record,  and  settled  down  to 
life  in  Port  Royal  again  as  a  reporter. 

His  twenty-first  year  had  gone  by. 

The  hurts  of  love,  so  intolerably  hard  to  bear,  had  healed. 

After  all,  Joyce  Tennant  had  loved  him;  nothing  could 

3 


4  The  Briary-Bush 

ever  take  away  his  memories  of  those  starlit  evenings  on 
the  river,  and  in  the  little  cabin  on  their  lonely  island.  She 
had  loved  him,  she  had  been  his.  There  was  comfort  in 
that  thought.  .  .  .  The  hurts  of  love  had  healed. 

But  the  hurts  of  pride  remained.  Loving  him,  she  had 
chosen  to  marry  another.  That  wound  still  ached.  .  .  . 

She  had  seen  him  all  along  for  what  he  was — a  moon 
struck  dreamer!  She  had  thought  him  the  fit  companion 
of  a  reckless  love-adventure — that  was  all. 

Her  scorn,  or  what  seemed  to  him  her  scorn,  mirrored 
and  magnified  by  the  secret  consciousness  of  his  own  weak 
ness,  came  to  assume  in  his  mind  the  proportions  of  a 
final  and  universal  judgment. 

A  dreamer?  And  a  dreamer  only?  His  egotism  could 
not  endure  the  thought. 

The  shadow-world  of  ideas,  of  theories,  of  poetic  fancies, 
amidst  which  he  had  moved  all  his  life,  was  not  enough. 
He  must  live  in  the  real  world. 

Chicago  became  for  him  the  symbol  of  that  real  world. 
It  was  no  longer  a  place  of  refuge — it  was  a  test,  a  challenge. 
He  would  go  there  not  as  a  moonstruck  dreamer,  but  as  a 
realist,  able  to  face  the  hard  facts  of  life. 

He  would  become  a  different  person. 

. ,  HX  was  .tir.e/i  o,f,  being  Felix  Fay  the  fool,  the  poet,  the 
thie'd-rist.    .T-Je  iwtiiiiil'd  -rather  be  anybody  else  in  the  world 
•  than .  that  «Fsl?.x  Fay  whose  ridiculous  blunderings  he  knew 
-byilteaVt.-.'  ';:,,; ;-''.  «,.' 

He  could  imagine  himself  in  Chicago,  a  changed  person — 
a  young  man  of  action,  practical,  alert,  ruthlessly  com 
petitive.  .  .  . 

Dreaming  of  success  in  Chicago,  he  sat  idly  at  his  desk 
in  Port  Royal. 

3 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.     No  one  was  left  in  the  office 
but  himself  and  Hastings,  the  city  editor. 
"Fay !" 

He  looked  up.     The  city  editor  beckoned  him  over. 
"Look  at  this." 


He  Decides  to  Change  His  Character    5 

Hastings  held  in  his  hand  the  sheaf  of  items  from 
Wheaton,  over  which  Felix  had  casually  written  a  heading 
half  an  hour  before.  Felix  held  out  his  hand  and  took 
them.  Something  was  wrong.  He  looked  anxiously  at  the 
items,  written  in  grey  pencil  on  coarse  paper  in  a  straggling 
hand.  The  page  uppermost  was  numbered  "3."  He  had 
hardly  glanced  at  it.  Evidently  he  had  overlooked 
something. 

It  caught  his  eye  instantly — the  second  item  from  the  top : 

A  man  named  Cyrus  Jenks,  known  as  Old  Cy,  committed  sui 
cide  last  night  by  hanging  himself  in  the  barn.  He  was  a  well- 
known  village  character,  chiefly  noted  for  his  intemperate  hab 
its.  The  inquest  will  be  held  today.  His  one  good  trait  was 
his  devotion  to  his  old  mother,  who  died  recently.  He  was  her 
illegitimate  child.  She  was  one  of  the  Bensons,  who  until  her 
disgrace  were  one  of  the  principal  families  in  the  county.  Her 
father  was  Judge  Benson.  The  family  moved  to  North  Dakota 
years  ago,  and  left  her  here  in  the  old  family  home,  where  she 
lived  alone  with  her  son  until  she  died.  Before  hanging  himself 
Old  Cy  set  fire  to  the  house,  and  it  was  partly  burned.  Since 
the  old  lady's  death  he  had  received  several  offers  for  the  place, 
but  refused  to  sell,  and  said  that  no  one  should  ever  set  foot  in 
his  mother's  house.  The'  incident  is  causing  much  local  com 
ment. 

Felix  drew  a  long  breath.  He  certainly  had  overlooked 
something!  He  could  see  that  story,  with  its  headlines,  on 
the  front  page  of  the  Record — rewritten  by  himself.  It  was 
just  the  kind  of  story  that  he  could  handle  in  a  way  to 
bring  out  all  its  values.  And  he  had  had  it  in  his  hands — 
and  had  let  it  pass  through  them,  buried  in  a  collection  of 
worthless  country  items ! 

"The  postmistress  at  Wheaton,"  Hastings  was  saying 
gently,  "is  not  supposed  to  know  a  front-page  story.  You 
are  supposed  to  know — that  is  the  theory  on  which  you  are 
hired." 

Felix  did  not  reply.     There  was  nothing  to  be  said. 

Hastings  was  looking  at  him  thoughtfully.     "I  don't  know 


6  The  Briary-Bush 

what's  got  into  you,  Felix,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you  were 
going  to  make  a  good  newspaper  man.  And  sometimes  I 
think  so  still.  But  mostly — you  aren't  worth  a  damn." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Felix.  " — I  mean,  no,  I  don't  think  I 
am,  either." 

He  was  going  to  be  fired.  .  .  .  Well,  he  deserved  it.  He 
ought  to  have  been  fired  long  ago.  And  he  was  rather  glad 
that  it  was  happening. 

Hastings  was  rather  taken  aback.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"frankly,  I  was  going  to  let  you  go.  But — well,  there's  no 
harm  done  this  time ;  we'd  already  gone  to  press  when  that 
stuff  came  in.  Of  course,  I  don't  say  that  your — your 
letting  it  get  by  was  excusable.  In  fact,  I  simply  can't 
understand  it.  But — if  you  realize — " 

So  he  was  not  going  to  be  fired  after  all!  Felix  was 
unaccountably  sorry. 

"If  you  think  you  can  pull  yourself  together — "  said 
Hastings.  "I'd  hate  to  have  you  leave  the  Record.  I've 
always — " 

Felix  felt  desperate.  He  knew  now  why  he  wanted  to  be 
fired.  It  would  give  him  the  necessary  push  into  his  Chicago 
adventure.  He  would  never  have  the  courage  to  leave  this 
job,  and  venture  into  the  unknown,  upon  his  own  initiative. 
He  didn't  have  any  initiative. 

"I  don't  think  it's  any  use,  Mr.  Hastings,"  he  said, 
"keeping  me  on  the  Record." 

Hastings  stared  at  him  incredulously. 

"I  mean,"  Felix  went  on  hastily,  "I've  got  in  a  rut.  I 
.go  through  my  work  mechanically.  I  don't  use  my  brains. 
I'm  dull.  And  it's  getting  worse.  I  simply  can't  take  any 
interest  in  my  work." 

"You  mean  you  want  to  be  fired?"  Hastings  asked 
severely. 

It  was  absurd.  In  fact,  it  was  preposterous.  This  was 
not  the  way  to  do  it  at  all.  But  it  was  too  late  now. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Well,  then,  you  are."  Hastings  looked  coldly  at  the 
ungrateful  and  rather  sheepish-looking  youth  standing 


He  Decides  to  Change  His  Character    7 

before  him.  "Have  you  got  another  job?"  he  asked 
suspiciously. 

«NO — I'm  going  to  Chicago  to  look  for  one." 

As  soon  as  he  said  that,  he  wished  he  hadn't.  It 
committed  him  to  going.  He  couldn't  back  out  now.  He 
had  to  go. 

"And  I  haven't  any  money  except  my  pay-check  for  this 
week." 

He  hadn't  thought  of  that  before.  How  could  he  go  with 
out  money? 

"Will  you  lend  me  fifty  dollars?" 

It  had  slipped  out  without  his  intending  it.  Felix  blushed. 
He  was  certainly  behaving  like  a  fool.  After  proving  him 
self  to  Hastings  an  utter  incompetent,  to  ask  him  for 
money.  ...  He  would  go  on  a  freight  train.  .  .  . 

"Fifty — what  are  you  talking  about?  Chicago  !"  Hastings 
was  embarrassed,  too.  "Why  —why— yes,  I  can  lend  you 
some  money,  if  you  really  want  it.  ...  Chicago — I  don't 
know  but  what  you're  right,  after  all.  .  .  .  When  are  you 
going?" 

Felix  was  trying  to  think  now  before  he  spoke.  He  just 
managed  to  check  himself  on  the  point  of  saying,  "Tonight !' 

All  this  was  happening  too  swiftly.  He  needed  time  to 
consider  everything,  to  make  his  plans.  A  month  would  be 
none  too  much. 

"Next  m — Monday,"  he  said. 

4 

When  Felix  left  the  office  he  went  home  by  a  round 
about  way  which  took  him  up  through  one  of  the  quiet 
residential  streets  of  the  town.  He  turned  a  corner,  and 
walked  slowly  down  past  a  row  of  cheerful  little  houses 
set  back  within  well-kept  lawns.  There  was  nothing 
magnificent  or  showy  about  these  houses — they  did  not 
betoken  any  vast  prosperty  or  leisure,  but  only  a  moderate 
comfort  and  security.  They  might  perhaps  suggest  a 
certain  middle-class  smugness ;  but  even  that  was  no  reason 
why  Felix  should  have  looked  at  them  from  under  his 


8  The  Briary-Bush 

slouching  hat-brim  with  such  a  grimace  of  hostility.  As 
he  neared  a  particular  one  of  these  houses,  he  walked 
faster  and  bent  his  head,  casting  a  furtive  glance  at  its 
windows.  But  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  at  those 
windows,  and  so  Felix  looked  again  and  slowed  his  step 
a  little.  In  front  of  the  house  he  paused  momentarily  and 
looked  at  it  with  an  apparently  casual  glance. 

He  had  gone  past  that  house,  in  this  manner,  a  dozen 
times  in  the  past  year,  savoring  painfully  each  time  the 
hard,  unmistakable,  disciplinary  fact  that  there,  contentedly 
under  that  roof,  the  wife  of  its  owner,  lived  Joyce — his 
Joyce  of  only  a  year  ago.  He  had  come,  now,  to  read  that 
lesson  in  realism  for  the  last  time. 

He  did  not  want  to  see  the  girl  who  had  taught  him 
that  lesson.  He  only  wanted  to  look  at  this  house  in  which 
she  lived  as  another  man's  wife. 

But,  as  he  walked  on  past,  he  did  see  her.  She  was 
standing  on  the  little  side  verandah.  And  in  the  vivid 
picture  of  her  which  Felix's  eyes  caught  before  he  looked 
hastily  away,  he  saw  that  she  had  a  baby  in  her  arms. 

She  was  looking  down  at  the  baby,  shaking  her  head 
teasingly  above  it  so  that  stray  locks  of  her  yellow  hair 
touched  its  face.  It  uttered  a  faint  cry,  and  she  shook 
her  curly  head  again,  and  looked  up,  smiling. 

But  she  did  not  see  Felix.  She  was  looking  down  the 
street  past  him.  She  was  waiting  for  someone — for  the 
owner  of  this  house,  her  husband;  waiting  for  the  man 
who  was  the  father  of  her  child. 

This  Felix  saw  and  felt  with  a  bewildered  and  hurt  mind 
in  the  moment  before  he  turned  his  eyes  away  to  stare  at 
the  sidewalk  in  front  of  him.  He  walked  on,  and  in  an 
other  moment  he  must  perforce  enter  the  field  of  her  vision 
as  he  passed  along  the  street  in  which  her  eyes  were 
searching  for  another  man.  He  braced  himself,  threw  his 
head  back,  and  commenced  to  whistle  a  careless  tune. 

If  she  saw  him,  if  she  noted  the  familiar  slouch  of  his 
hat  as  he  passed  out  of  her  sight,  she  would  never  know  that 
he  had  seen — or  cared. 


I" 


II.  "Bon  Voyage! 


THE  family  were  apparently  not  at  all  surprised  when, 
at  the  supper-table,  Felix  announced  his  sudden 
decision. 

"Well,  I  knew  you'd  be  going  one  of  these  days,"  his 
brother  Ed  remarked. 

That  seemed  strange  to  Felix,  who  had  kept  his  Chicago 
intentions  carefully  to  himself  all  that  year.  .  .  . 

And  his  brother  Jim,  who  was  working  again  in  spite  of 
his  lameness,  was  quite  converted  from  his  supper-table 
querulousness  by  the  announcement.  "When  I  was  in 
Chicago — "  he  said,  and  told  stories  of  the  Chicago  of  ten 
years  ago,  where  he  had  tried  briefly  to  gain  a  foothold. 
It  remained  in  his  mind,  it  seemed,  not  as  a  failure,  but  as 
a  glorious  excursion.  .  .  . 

Alice,  Ed's  wife,  was  enchanted.  Her  cheeks  glowed, 
and  she  asked  endless  questions.  It  appeared  that  none  of 
them  had  the  slightest  doubt  of  Felix's  ultimate,  and 
splendid,  success.  It  really  seemed  as  if  they  envied  him! 

And  all  the  while,  Felix  was  thinking  what  an  ironic 
spectacle  he  would  present  if  he  -returned  home  in  a  month 
or  two.  He  clenched  his  fists  under  the  table-edge,  and 
swore  to  himself  that  he  would  never — never — make  that 
confession  of  failure.  .  .  . 

"You  must  write  to  your  mother  and  tell  her  all  about 
it,  Felix,"  said  Alice. 

His  mother  and  father  were  down  on  the  farm  in  Illinois 
where  Mrs.  Fay  had  lived  as  a  little  girl.  She  had  never 
adjusted  herself  to  town  life;  nor  had  her  husband.  They 
were  best  content  in  the  country,  where  she  could  grow 
flowers  in  the  front  yard  and  he  could  fatten  and  butcher 
and  salt  down  a  couple  of  hogs  for  the  winter.  .  .  .  Their 

9 


10  The  Briary-Bush 

only  grievance  was  that  their  children  found  so  little  time  to 
come  and  visit  them.  Ed  usually  came  once  a  year,  in  the 
slack  season,  and  Jim  when  he  needed  a  rest;  but  Felix, 
it  seemed,  was  always  too  busy.  .  .  . 

"Why  bother  her  about  my  going  to  Chicago?"  Felix 
grumbled. 

"Why,  Felix!"  Alice  reproached  him.  She  could  never 
understand  why  it  was  so  hard  for  him  to  write  to  his 
mother. 

"I  don't  want  her  worrying  about  me,"  Felix  explained 
uncomfortably. 

"She  won't  worry  about  you,"  Alice  insisted.  "She'll 
be  proud  of  you!" 

Felix  wondered  if  people  always  had  to  lie  to  themselves 
about  their  prospects  before  they  could  do  anything.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  he  ought  to  lie  to  himself ;  but  he  preferred  to  face 
the  facts  as  they  were.  He  would  have  to  embellish  them 
a  little,  however,  in  writing  to  his  mother.  .  .  . 

When  supper  was  cleared  away,  and  Jim  had  gone  out 
to  sit  on  the  front  steps,  and  Ed  and  Alice  were  in  the  front 
room  playing  one  of  the  newest  records  on  the  phonograph, 
Felix  wrote  briefly  and  shyly  to  his  mother — explaining 
that  he  was  fairly  certain  to  get  something  to  do  in  Chicago 
very  quickly.  .  .  .  And  then,  by  way  of  savouring  in  ad 
vance  the  grim  realities  of  his  adventure,  he  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  Helen  Raymond  in  New  York — a  letter  in  which 
he  made  clear  the  wild  recklessness  of  his  plans.  He  felt  that 
the  woman  who  had  befriended  him  when  she  was  the 
librarian  at  Port  Royal  and  he  a  queer  boy  who  worked 
in  a  factory  and  wrote  poetry,  would  understand  this  newest 
folly  of  his. 

But  what  a  waste  of  time,  writing  letters,  when  he  had 
only  six  days  left  in  which  to  prepare  for  going  to  Chicago ! 
.  .  .  He  determined  to  use  those  remaining  days  very 
carefully  and  sensibly. 

He  bought  a  street  map  the  next  morning,  and  went  home 
to  study  it.  But  it  was  hard  to  give  it  due  attention  at 
home.  His  sister-in-law  was  mending  and  pressing  his 


"Bon  Voyage!"  ll 

clothes,  and  collecting  and  inspecting  his  shirts,  and  talking 
excitedly  about  his  trip.  "If  you  run  short  of  money, 
Felix,  you  just  write  to  us  for  it.  Ed  and  I  will  see  that 
you  get  it  somehow.  "  Felix  was  fiercely  resolved  not  to 
be  a  burden  to  them  after  he  went  to  Chicago,  and  these  of 
fers  made  him  uncomfortable.  Why  should  Alice  be  so  in 
terested  in  this  expedition  of  his  anyway?  She  was  as  con 
cerned  about  it  as  though  it  were  she  herself  who  was  going. 
She  wanted  to  know  his  plans ;  and  when  he  did  not  seem  to 
have  any,  she  persisted  in  trying  to  make  them  for  him. 

He  was  not  going  to  get  any  opportunity  to  study  that 
street  map  at  home.  He  decided  that  he  would  go  and 
spend  a  few  days  at  his  friend  Tom  Alden's  little  place  in 
the  country,  where  he  would  find  a  more  congenial  atmos 
phere. 


Too  congenial!  Tom  was  the  same  perfect  companion 
of  an  idle  hour — instinctively  expert  in  gilding  that  idle 
ness  with  delightful  talk  until  it  ceased  to  seem  mere  idleness 
— the  same  old  Tom  that  Felix  had  loafed  away  long 
evenings  with  last  summer,  when  they  were  supposed  to  be 
writing  novels.  Tom  was  still  desultorily  working  upon  his 
novel;  but  he  put  it  aside  to  walk  in  the  woods  and  talk 
with  Felix  about  Chicago.  It  was  not,  however,  of  the 
grim  Chicago  which  loomed  in  Felix's  mind,  that  Tom  talked. 

Tom,  as  Felix  now  realized,  was  a  romantic  soul.  Chicago 
had  been  to  him  a  series  of  brilliant  vacation-trips,  a  place 
of  happy  occasional  sanctuary  from  the  dull  realities  of 
middle-class  life  in  Port  Royal:  an  opportunity  for  brief, 
stimulating  human  contacts,  not  at  all  a  place  to  earn  a 
living  in. 

Lying  in  the  cool  grass  beside  the  creek  where  he  and 
Felix  had  spent  so  many  illusioned  hours  a  summer  ago, 
he  talked  with  dreamy  enthusiasm  of  genial  drunken  poets 
and  philosophers  and  friends  met  at  the  Pen  Club— and 
of  their  girl  companions,  charming  and  sophisticated,  whose 
loves  were  frank  and  light-hearted. 


12  The  Briary-Bush 

Felix  walked  up  and  down  impatiently.  A  year  ago  he 
too  had  dreamed  of  Tom's  Chicago — 

"Midnights  of  revel 
And  noondays  of  song!" 

But  he  knew  better  now.  He  could  imagine  the  Pen 
Club,  with  its  boon-companionship  of  whiskey  and  mutual 
praise.  These,  he  told  himself,  were  the  consolations  of 
failure.  He  might,  he  reflected  grimly,  have  to  fall  back 
on  these  things  at  forty.  But  in  the  meantime  he  would 
try  to  learn  to  face  reality. 

And  those  light  Chicago  loves— he  suspected  that  the 
romantic  temperament  had  thrown  a  glamour  over  these 
also.  He  was  not  going  to  Chicago  for  Pen  Club  friend 
ship  nor  the  solace  of  complaisant  femininity.  .  .  . 
While  Tom  Alden  reminisced  of  glorious  nights  of  talk  and 
drink  and  kisses,  Felix  was  brooding  over  a  scene  inside  his 
mind  which  he  called  Chicago — a  scene  in  which  the  insane 
clamour  of  the  wheat-pit  was  mingled  with  stockyards  brutal 
ity  and  filth.  This  was  what  he  must  deal  with.  .  .  . 

"What's  on  your  mind?"  Tom  asked. 

"Nothing.  Except — I  came  here  to  study  my  street  map, 
and  I  haven't  looked  inside  it." 

"Never  mind  your  street  map  just  now,"  Tom  said. 
"We're  going  to  the  station  to  meet  Gloria  and  Madge." 

Madge  was  a  cousin  of  Tom's,  and  Gloria  her  especial — 
and  beautiful— friend.  They  were  just  back  from  a  trip 
abroad,  and  Tom  had  asked  them  out  to  dinner  to  hear  what 
they  had  to  tell. 

"You  mustn't  be  prejudiced  against  Gloria  because  of  her 
eyelashes,"  Tom  urged.  "She  has  rather  a  mind,  I  think." 

So  Felix,  reluctantly,  went  along  to  the  station. 

Tom  jested  at  his  reluctance.  "Why,  are  you  afraid  of 
becoming  entangled  in  Gloria's  celebrated  eyelashes?" 

"No,  I'm  not  afraid  of  that,"  Felix  said. 

Tom  laughed  and  put  his  hand  on  Felix's  shoulder. 

"Think,  they  bring  us  news  of  the  great  world:  London! 
Paris!  Doesn't  that  stir  you?" 


"Bon  Voyage!"  13 

"No,"  Felix  retorted,  "for  I  don't  believe  it.  They  bring 
back  what  they  took  with  them.  " 

"Wait  and  see !  I  hear  rumours  that  Gloria  has  become 
fearfully  cosmopolitan. " 

When  Gloria  and  Madge  stepped  from  the  train,  it  was 
evident,  even  to  so  careless  an  observer  as  Felix,  that  they 
had  been  at  least  outwardly  transformed.  Every  woman  in 
Port  Royal  was  wearing  the  wide-flaring  "Merry  Widow" 
hat;  and  these  girls  wore  small  close-fitting  hats — Gloria's 
being  a  jaunty  little  flower-confection,  and  Madge's  a  tiny 
straw  turban  set  off  by  a  perky  feather. 

"Dear  old  Tom,"  said  Gloria,  embracing  him  affectionately. 
"Too  busy  to  come  to  town  to  see  old  friends,  so  old 
friends  have  to  come  see  him.  Busy  writing  great  novel?" 

"More  or  less,"  Tom  answered,  and  they  started  back  up 
the  road.  "How's  Europe?" 

"We  tore  ourselves  from  the  arms  of  doting  relatives  to 
come  and  tell  you — When  one's  been  all  over  the  world, 
what's  a  few  miles  more?  .  .  .  even  when  it  means  getting 
one's  new  Paris  shoes  all  dusty !  Have  you  noticed  them, 
Tom?"  She  paused  on  one  toe  and  looked  down  sidewise 
admiringly  at  her  foot. 

"I  noticed  a  generally  exotic  effect,"  Tom  admitted. 

"Tan  suede !"  Gloria  explained.  "And  then,  our  blouses. 
Something  quite  new.  And — but  mustn't  talk  to  great 
philosopher  about  such  frivolous  things.  Must  talk  about 
art  and  socialism.  There  are  lots  of  socialists  over  there, 
in  France  and  Germany — and  even  in  England!" 

"So  you  found  that  out,"  Tom  observed.  "Now  I  sup- 
nose  you  regard  socialism  as  quite  respectable." 

"Oh,  most  respectable.  But  just  as  hard  to  understand  as 
ever !  Though  I  was  able,  when  I  talked  to  some  of  them  at 
the  Countess  of  Berwick's  tea,  to  appear  quite  intelligent  on 
the  subject,  on  account  of  having  listened  to  you.  I  used 
'proletarian'  and  'proletariat'  without  once  getting  them 
mixed." 

"The  Countess  of  Berwick !  Our  little  Gloria  flew  high, 
didn't  she?" 


14  The  Briary-Bush 

"Oh,  all  sorts  of  people  go  to  the  Countess  of  Berwick's 
teas.  You've  only  to  be  reputed  'interesting/  and  you  get 
invited  everywhere.  And  how  do.  you  suppose  I  got  into  the 
'interesting'  class?  Not  by  my  gifts  of  intellect,  Tommy. 
But — you  know,  they  expect  Americans  to  behave  queerly. 
They're  disappointed  if  we  don't.  There  was  an  American 
poet  over  there,  a  tame  professor  poet,  and  they  were  dis 
appointed  because  he  didn't  come  to.  dinner  in  boots  and 
spurs  and  a  red  shirt  or  something.  So  I  bethought  myself 
— and  got  invited.  You  know  my  baby-talk?  I  brought  it 
out  and  polished  it  up  for  the  occasion.  You  should  have 
heard  me !  Baby-talking  to  England's  brightest  and  best. 
And  they  fell  for  it.  They  consider  it  oh,  so  American !  I 
nearly  set  a  fashion  in  London,  Tommy.  Me,  having  been 
brought  up  in  Miss  Pettit's  most  exclusive  school,  and  taught 
to  act  like  a  lady,  and  then  making  a  hit  in  London  with  bad 
manners.  The  baby-talk  wasn't  all.  Daughter  of  American 
Plough  Magnate  Puts  Feet  on  Table  and  Tells  Naughty 
Stories — that  sort  of  thing.  They  like  it." 

"You  mustn't  believe  her,  Tom,"  Madge  interrupted. 
"She  didn't  do  any  such  thing." 

"Tom  understands  me,"  Gloria  laughed.  "Exaggeration 
for  effect.  Just  like  in  a  novel.  If  you  put  my  London  visit 
in  a  novel,  Tom,  you'd  have  me  putting  my  feet  on  the  table, 
wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"But  my  imagination,"  said  Tom,  "would  balk  at  the 
picture  of  you  telling  naughty  stories.  " 

"Oh,  but  Tom,  I've  been  to  Paris  since  you  used  to  know 
me,  and  I've  become  very,  very  wicked.  Don't  contradict 
me,  Madge.  I've  got  to  persuade  Tom  that  I  got  some 
benefit  out  of  my  year  abroad.  Yes,  Tom,  you've  no  idea 
how  broad-minded  Paris  has  made  me.  Why,  if  somebody 
should  mention  a  man's'  'mistress' to  me  now,  I  wouldn't 
shudder  and  turn  pale.  I  would  probably  say,  'Dear  me, 
has  he  only  one?'  That's  what  Paris  has  made  of  me.  I'm 
brazen,  Tom — brazen." 

They  reached  the  house,  and  there  they  chattered  on  till 
dinner,  and  through  dinner,  and  after  dinner  in  Tom's  living 


"Bon  Voyage!"  15 

room — Felix  playing  a  silent  part,  and  inwardly  contemptu 
ous  of  Gloria's  assumed  sophistication.  Gloria  made  a  few 
attempts  to  draw  him  into  the  conversation,  but  these  being 
resisted,  she  devoted  herself  to  Tom.  Growing  confidential, 
she  told  him  the  newest  fashfons  in  French  lingerie — Madge 
protesting  only  slightly,  for  after  all,  wasn't  Tom  her  cousin? 
and  Felix  didn't  count.  "They're  still  wearing  muslin  over 
here,"  said  Gloria,  "while  we,  Tom  dear,  come  from  Paris 
intimately  attired  in  georgette  and  chiffon — if  you  know  what 
that  means.  All  the  difference  in  the  world,  I  can  assure 
you !  One's  Puritanism  goes  when  one  puts  on  chiffon  next 
to  one's  skin.  And  think,  Tom,  I  never  dreamed,  all  my 
poor  wasted  life  in  Iowa,  that  nightgowns  could  be  anything 
but  white  muslin.  Well,  you  should  see  the  lovely  nighties 
that  Madge  and  I  brought  home.  You'd  never  guess  the 
colour.  .  .  .  Lavender!  Why,  the  social  circles  of  Port 
Royal  are  rocking  with  it !  A  blow,  Tom,  at  the  very  foun 
dations  of  middle-class  morality.  Lavender  nighties !" 

"I  do  think,"  Tom  said,  "that  what  people  wear  makes  a 
difference  in  their  attitude  toward  life." 

"Oh,  I  can  feel  the  difference  already.  My  Presbyterian 
conscience  shrivelled  up  and  perished  at  the  touch  of  that 
pagan  garment.  My  whole  attitude  toward  life  has 
changed.  " 

Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders  by  way  of  expressing  his 
unbelief  in  the  paganism  of  lavender  nightgowns. 

"What  are  they  writing  in  Paris  now  ?"  Tom  asked. 

"Well,  Tom,  I  admit  I  was  surprised  at  first.  I  never 
dreamed  that  even  the  French  could  be  so — French.  But 
I  got  used  to  it.  I  like  it  now.  Even  Madge  likes  it.  She 
makes  me  translate  the  wickedest  passages  for  her.  " 

"I  don't  any  such  thing,"  Madge  objected. 

"What  is  there  so  wicked  in  those  passages  ?"  asked  Felix, 
speaking  for  almost  the  first  time. 

Gloria  considered  him  for  a  moment  before  replying. 
"Nothing  really  wicked  at  all,"  she  said.  "Wicked  only 
according  to  our  stupid  Anglo-Saxon  notions.  Simply 
frank,  that's  all.  " 


16  The  Briary-Bush 

"I  wonder,"  said  Felix,  "if  they  are  really  more  frank  than 
English  novels — the  best  of  them.  Defoe  and  Fielding 
were  rather  frank,  you  know." 

Gloria  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders.  "If  there  was  any 
thing  like  that  in  Defoe  and  Fielding,  it  escaped  my  inno 
cent  young  mind  when  I  read  them.  "  She  turned  again 
to  Tom.  "They  omit  nothing— Nothing !" 

"You  excite  my  curiosity,"  Tom  said  sceptically.  "Please 
describe  more  specifically  the  Nothing  which  they  omit." 

Gloria  laughed,  and  sketched  lightly  and  brightly  the  plot 
of  one  of  the  most  outrageous  new  French  novels — ex 
treme,  she  admitted,  even  for  France.  "Every  other  chap 
ter,"  she  said,  "is  one  which  the  boldest  English  novelist 
would  leave  to  your  imagination.  In  this  story,  here  it  is, 
with,  I  assure  you,  a  wealth  of  detail." 

"A  wealth  of  words,  rather,  I  suspect,"  said  Tom.  "The 
same  words  that  have  done  duty  in  the  same  French  novels 
for  a  generation:  volupte — exqmse — bowser — baiser.  .  .  . 
The  same  old  thing,  so  far  as  I  gather  from  your  descrip 
tion,  Gloria.  That  kind  of  eloquent  rhetoric  isn't  frank 
ness, — at  least  not  the  kind  of  literary  frankness  that  Felix 
and  I  are  interested  in." 

"Forgive  me,  Tom!"  said  Gloria,  with  mock  humility. 
"My  mistake !  Here  I  have  been  going  across  the  ocean  in 
search  of  sensation,  and  all  the  while  the  real  shock  was 
waiting  for  me  right  here  at  home.  In  your  novel  you  have 
doubtless  outdone  the  puny  efforts  of  these  mere  foreigners. 
What  do  they  know  about  frankness?  I  abase  myself,  and 
repent  in  dust  and  ashes!" 

"I  really  do  think,"  said  Tom,  "that  you  imagine  the 
truth  can  be  told  only  in  French. " 

"I  suppose  I  was  guilty  of  that  foolish  error.  But  I 
pine  for  enlightenment.  Give  me  the  truth — the  Truth! — 
in  my  own  native  tongue ! " 

Tom  shook  his  head.     "I  didn't  say  I  had  tried  to  tell  it." 

"Oh,  don't  disappoint  me  that  way,  Tom.  Surely  you 
are  not  going  to  let  these  Frenchmen  put  it  over  on  you! 
Don't  say  that!" 


"Bon  Voyage!"  17 

"Well,"  Tom  said  gravely,  "Felix  has  a  chapter  in  his 
novel  here — I  found  the  manuscript  in  my  desk  and  was 
just  reading  it  again  the  other  day — that  I  think  goes  a 
little  beyond  anything  I  have  ever  seen  in  any  French  novel.  " 

Gloria  turned  to  Felix  and  stared.  "Well!"  she  cried. 
"America  is  saved!  Will  you  read  it  to  us,  Mr  Fay?" 

"No,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  why  not!" 

"Don't  want  to." 

"I  think  you  show  a  lack  of  confidence  in  us,  Mr  Fay. 
Here  we  put  ourselves  in  your  hand.  We  open  our  hearts  to 
you.  We  conceal  nothing.  And  you  sit  there  with  a  master 
piece  of  literary  frankness  up  your  sleeve,  and  refuse  to  read 
it.  I  don't  think  it's  fair." 

Felix  was  silent.  He  really  wanted  to  read  that  chapter. 
He  was  proud  of  it.  But  he  must  not  become  interested  in 
novel-writing  again.  It  would  distract  his  mind  too  much 
from  the  Chicago  adventure.  That  unfinished  novel  ought 
to  remain  in  that  drawer  in  Tom's  desk  until  he  had  made 
good  in  Chicago. 

"I  don't  believe  it's  so  frank,  after  all,"  said  Gloria,  return 
ing  to  the  attack.  "That's  why  you're  afraid  to  read  it. 
You're  afraid  of  disappointing  our  expectations." 

Felix  looked  at  her  defiantly. 

"All  right,  I  will,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  this  is  worth  coming  back  for." 

He  rose  and  went  to  Tom's  room.  He  returned,  a  little 
doubtfully,  with  the  manuscript.  "I  want  to  say  first 
of  all  that  there  is  nothing  intentionally  shocking  about  this 
chapter.  It  simply  aims  to  tell  how  people  really  behave  un 
der  circumstances  usually  glossed  over  with  romantic 
phrases." 

At  any  rate,  Gloria  would  understand;  so  why  should  he 
hesitate  ? 

He  began  to  read.  From  the  first  page,  he  was  aware  of 
a  transformation  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  occasion.  Gloria, 
who  had  been  leaning  forward  with  dramatic  eagerness,  be 
came  rigid  in  her  attitude,  and  her  humorous  smile  seemed  to 


i8  The  Briary-Bush 

have  become  tensely  frozen  in  its  place.  Madge  had  picked 
up  a  magazine,  opened  it  to  a  picture,  and  continued  to  look 
at  the  picture  while  listening  alertly,  with  an  air  of  being  at 
a  key-hole.  Tom  continued  gravely  smoking  his  pipe,  ap 
parently  oblivious  of  any  constraint  upon  the  others.  After 
a  little,  Gloria  carefully  relaxed  her  attitude,  and  leaned 
back,  looking  above  Felix's  head,  with  an  impassive  face  and 
arms  straight  at  her  sides.  Felix  defiantly  read  on. 

He  knew  there  was  nothing  really  shocking  about  the 
chapter — at  least,  to  an  enlightened  and  adult  mind  such  as 
Gloria's.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  in  its  local  colour  and 
middle-western  psychology,  there  was  something — not  present 
in  the  most  highly  flavoured  French  romance — to  disturb 
the  pretences  and  awake  the  painful  and  ashamed  memories 
of  a  middle-western  mind :  something  sufficiently  near  to  the 
unromantic  truth  of  Gloria's  own  secret  life,  perhaps,  to 
evoke  in  her  an  hysterical  disgust.  .  .  .  He  only  knew  that 
the  situation  was  becoming  uncomfortable,  and  that  he  was 
sorry  he  had  ever  got  into  it. 

He  finished  the  chapter.     There  ensued  a  painful  silence. 

"Very  remarkable  writing  indeed,  Mr.  Fay,"  was  all  the 
comment  the  young  woman  back  from  abroad  had  to  offer. 
Evidently  what  was  delightfully  daring  in  Paris  was  some 
thing  else  in  Port  Royal  on  the  Mississippi.  .  .  . 

Felix,  not  knowing  quite  what  to  think,  went  to  put  his 
manuscript  away.  Surely  Gloria  could  not  have  been  really 
shocked !  .  .  .  When  he  returned,  they  were  all  talking  with 
animation  about  something  else.  .  .  .  Presently  it  was  time 
for  the  girls  to  leave.  "I  hear  you're  going  to  Chicago 
soon,"  Gloria  said  sweetly  to  Felix.  "Bon  voyage!" 

"I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself  again,"  Felix  said  to  him 
self  bitterly. 

3 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  Felix  and  Tom  talked  again 
about  Chicago ;  but  not  in  the  realistic  vein  Felix  would 
have  preferred.  Tonight  he  must  go  back  to  town ;  he  had 
already  stayed  too  long — he  was  falling  into  his  old  habit 


"Bon  Voyage!"  19 

of  day-dreaming  about  the  future.  .  .  .  That  chapter  had 
set  him  off.  Gloria  had  been — well,  startled  and  impressed, 
to  say  the  least.  That  chapter  was  good.  Perhaps  he  was 
destined  to  help  bring  back  to  English  fiction  its  lost  candour, 
the  candour  of  the  Elizabethans  and  Defoe  and  Fielding. 

But  no,  he  must  not  think  about  such  things  now.  He 
would  have  no  time  for  writing,  for  a  long  while,  in  Chicago. 
He  would  be  too  much  immersed  in  the  struggle  for  existence. 
If  he  were  to  write  novels,  he  ought  to  stay  in  Port  Royal. 
Yes,  he  might  take  the  civil  service  examination  and  get  a 
quiet  job  in  the  post-office  that  would  give  him  time  to  think 
and  dream  and  write.  .  .  . 

He  sprang  up.  He  knew  quite  well  what  this  meant. 
Cowardice!  If  he  got  into  the  post-office,  he  would  stay 
there  forever.  .  .  .  He  started  abruptly  toward  the  house, 
leaving  Tom  in  the  midst  of  an  anecdote  of  old  Chicago 
days. 

He  had  left  the  map  on  Tom's  desk.  His  novel  was  in 
that  same  desk.  If  he  started  reading  that  novel  again, 
he  might  decide  to  stay  in  Port  Royal  and  finish  it.  He 
wondered  whether  the  map  or  the  novel  would  claim  him 
when  he  sat  down  at  that  desk.  Five  minutes  at  that  desk 
might  decide  his  whole  future  for  him.  .  .  . 

He  went  into  Tom's  room,  went  over  to  the  desk — and 
from  a  letter  lying  open  beside  the  pen-tray  there  flashed  up 
to  him  his  own  name,  Felix  Fay  .  .  .  with  a  fringe  of 
words  about  it. 

Those  words  startled  him,  and  he  bent  over  the  letter  to 
make  sure  that  they  were  really  there;  he  read  them,  and 
turned  to  see  the  signature — it  was  that  of  Madge  Alden ; 
and  then  he  sat  down  in  Tom's  chair  and  read  slowly  that 
paragraph  of  three  sentences. 

"Is  that  nasty  young  man  Felix  Fay  really  a  friend  of  yours? 
I  think  he'd  better  leave  Port  Royal  quick.  The  story  of  that 
horrible  chapter  is  all  over  town  and — well,  if  you  knew  the 
things  Gloria  is  saying  about  him!" 

So  Gloria  had  betrayed  him  to  Port  Royal. 


2O  The  Briary-Bush 


He  sank  back  in  his  chair,  amazed  at  his  sensations.  He 
had  never  thought  any  written  words  could  affect  him  like 
that.  He  had  never  cared  what  people  thought.  .  .  . 

It  was  absurd.  He  felt  as  though  a  cannon-ball  had  gone 
through  his  abdomen.  He  sat  there,  weak,  stunned,  gasp 
ing  for  breath — with  a  mind  curiously  detached,  floating 
somewhere  above  that  stunned  body,  wondering.  ...  It 
was  curious  that  anything  in  the  world  could  hurt  so  much. 

Then,  in  a  rush,  all  his  energy  seemed  to  come  back,  flood 
ing  and  filling  his  body — as  if  to  provide  him  the  strength 
with  which  to  return  blow  for  blow.  And  that  superfluity  of 
strength  was  worse  than  the  weakness  had  been — for  there 
was  no  one,  nothing  to  fight.  Words  out  of  the  air  had 
hurt  him,  and  he  could  not  fight  back. 

The  emotion  which  flooded  him  ebbed  at  last,  leaving 
him  in  a  curious  mood  of  utter  coldness.  The  thought  came 
into  his  mind :  "Nothing  that  ever  happens  to  me  can  hurt 
me  after  this — nothing." 

He  opened  the  drawer.  He  wanted  to  see  that  unfinished 
novel.  He  wanted  to  know  what  it  was  really  like.  He 
felt  capable  of  judging  it  calmly. 

He  turned  the  pages  here  and  there,  reading  at  random, 
now  with  affection  and  now  with  contempt,  making  up  his 
mind.  .  .  .  He  suddenly  realized  that  he  was  feeling  ashamed 
of  it  all.  He  did  not  realize  that  this  new  humiliation,  at 
the  hands  of  a  girl,  had  awakened  painful  memories  of  the 
love-affair  which  he  had  celebrated  in  this  novel,  and  which 
had  ended  so  differently  in  real  life  from  the  way  it  was 
to  end  in  this  book ;  he  only  knew  that  he  was  ashamed. 

The  style,  he  said  to  himself,  was  bad — very  bad. 

He  forced  himself  to  read  again  the  chapter  which  had 
caused  all  the  trouble.  It  made  him  smile  painfully.  Why, 
this  bald  and  painstaking  frankness  of  his  was  not 
courageous,  it  was  merely  comic !  .  .  .  He  turned  the  pages 
again.  This  stuff  was  not  a  novel. 

He  had  been  an  idler,  a  dreamer,  a  fool.  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  he  remembered  something — a  scene  from 


"Bon  Voyage!"  21 

a  long  time  ago:  it  was  in  school,  and  the  principal  was 
looking  over  a  boy's  shoulder  at  a  piece  of  paper  upon  which, 
day-dreaming  of  his  future,  the  boy  had  written:  "Felix 
Fay,  the  great  novelist.  .  .  " 

He  heard  the  principal  telling  that  boy  to  write  those 
words  on  the  blackboard,  to  show  the  class  what  he  had  been 
doing  instead  of  attending  to  his  lessons.  He  saw  the  boy, 
pale  and  trembling,  rise  and  face  a  hundred  curious,  staring 
eyes.  .  .  . 

Felix  had  not  recalled  that  scene  for  years;  it  had  hurt 
too  much.  But  now  it  was  no  longer  painful.  He  saw  the 
scene  for  the  first  time  impersonally;  and  he  felt  that  the 
principal  had  been  right.  .  .  . 

Gazing  down  at  the  manuscript  in  his  hand,  he  pronounced 
sentence  upon  it  in  the  words  in  which  the  principal  had  once 
condemned  that  boy.  "This  is  what  is  known  as  egotism," 
he  whispered. 

He  rose,  stuffed  the  pages  into  Tom's  fireplace  and  set 
fire  to  them  with  a  match.  Then,  while  the  record  of  all 
his  futile  dreaming  went  up  in  smoky  flame,  he  turned  back 
to  the  desk,  sat  down,  and  bent  over  the  microscopic  squares 
and  confused  lettering  of  the  street-map  of  Chicago. 


III.  Plans 


COMING  home,  Felix  found  a  letter  from  Helen  Ray 
mond,  congratulating  him  on  his  decision  to  go  to 
Chicago,  and  enclosing  two  letters  of  introduction, 
one  of  them  to  an  editorial  writer  on  an  afternoon  paper, 
the  other  to  some  one  at  a  settlement  house. 

Helen  was,  he  perceived,  like  Tom,  a  romanticist.  She 
would  be  quite  capable  of  believing  that  these  little  pieces  of 
paper  assured  him  a  welcome  in  Chicago!  .  .  .  She  had, 
with  a  kind  of  pathetic  maternal  fussiness,  taken  his 
destinies  in  charge;  and  Felix  rather  wished  she  hadn't. 
She  had  even  directed  him  as  to  which  train  he  should  take 
on  Monday — apparently  confident  that  some  one,  in  response 
to  her  suggestion,  would  be  at  the  station  to  meet  him.  As 
if  people  in  Chicago  had  time  for  such  amenities ! 

It  was  in  the  mood  of  one  who  goes  alone  against  the 
enemy,  that  Felix  took  the  train  to  Chicago.  And  armed 
with  a  paper  sword !  For  so  it  was  that  he  thought  of  his 
letters  of  introduction.  Of  what  use  were  letters  of  introduc 
tion  in  Chicago?  Well  he  knew  how  unconscious  Chicago 
would  remain  of  the  arrival  of  one  more  poor  struggler. 
His  coming  might  mean  everything  to  him,  but  it  meant 
nothing  at  all  to  Chicago.  That  was  the  obvious  truth,  and 
why  not  face  it  ? 


On  the  train  he  took  out  his  money  and  counted  it  again, 
though  he  knew  quite  definitely  how  much  he  had.  But 
it  was  reassuring  to  feel  the  crisp  bills  in  his  hand.  Well, 
he  would  not  starve  for  three  or  four  weeks  anyway.  He 
considered  the  advisability  of  putting  away  separately  enough 


22 


Plans  23 

to  pay  his  fare  back  home,  but  decided  against  it.  "I  am  not 
going  back  home,"  he  said  to  himself. 

He  went  over  his  plans  once  more.  From  the  station 
he  would  go  to  a  certain  cheap  hotel  that  Tom  had  suggested. 
Tom  had  stayed  -there  once  when  he  was  nearly  broke.  Then 
he  would  look  about  for  a  cheap  foom.  That  secured,  he 
would  spend  a  day  wandering  about  the  city  and  familiar 
izing  himself  with  its  streets.  The  third  day  he  would  go 
to  look  for  a  job.  And  the  fourth  day— and  all  the  other 
days— he  would  continue  to  look  for  a  job :  until  he  got  one. 

There  was  no  use  in  going  over  his  plans  any  more.  He 
took  a  book  from  his  suitcase  to  read. 

He  had  taken  along  only  one  book.  ...  He  had  smiled 
ironically  when  choosing  it,  remembering  the  old  literary 
discussions  as  to  what  book  one  would  choose  to  have  along 
when  cast  away  on  a  desert  island.  Here  was  a  more 
practical  problem:  what  book  one  should  choose  for  solace 
when  cast  alone  into  the  midst  of  a  complex  and  difficult 
civilization.  On  a  desert  island  one  would  want  something 
to  remind  one  of  people,  of  civilization— perhaps  Henry 
James;  or  more  likely  the  Arabian  Nights,  But  for  his 
Chicago  campaign  he  had  chosen  H.  G.  Wells'  "First  and 
Last  Things." 

He  opened  the  book  and  began  to  read.  ...  He  discovered 
after  a  while  that  -he  had  been  reading  the  same  sentence 
over  and  over: 

"It  seems  to  me  one  of  the  heedless  errors  of  those  who  deal 
in  philosophy,  to  suppose  all  things  that  have  simple  names  or 
unified  effects  are  in  their  nature  simple  and  may  be  discovered 
and  isolated  as  a  sort  of  essence  by  analysis." 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  that  sentence  was  doubt 
less  perfectly  clear;  but  on  the  train  to  Chicago  it  was 
strangely  hard  to  understand.  And  when  he  recalled  his 
wandering  thoughts,  put  aside  his  emotions  of  expectation 
and  fear,  and  looked  at  the  sentence  again,  its  meaning  was 
singularly  comfortless.  That  simple  things  a-re  not  so 
simple  after  all— yes,  that  was  just  the  trouble! 


24  The  Briary-Bush 

Going  to  Chicago,  for  instance.  Thousands  of  young 
men  did  it  every  year;  his  journey  was  merely  one  of  the 
items  of  those  broad  sociological  generalizations  which  the 
university  extension  lecturers  were  fond  of  uttering.  From 
the  outside  it  was  simple  enough.  It  had  apparently  been 
taken  for  granted  by  his'  family  and  friends  for  the  last  two 
or  three  years  that  Felix  would  go  to  Chicago.  Certain 
people,  it  seemed,  inevitably  went.  Being  one  of  those 
people,  he  had  gone. 

But  why? 

He  restlessly  put  aside  the  book  and  stared  out  the  window. 
Why?  He  hadn't  the  least  idea,  and  he  rather  wished  he 
were  back  in  Port  Royal,  with  time  and  leisure  to  work  out 
the  answer  to  that  question  satisfactorily.  .  .  . 

"Going  to  Chicago  ?" 

It  Was  a  genial  elderly  man  in  the  seat  opposite  asking 
the  question — a  plump  man  with  a  little  pointed  beard 
sprinkled  with  grey,  and  laughing  wrinkles  about  his  eyes. 
He  leaned  forward  in  a  friendly  manner. 

"Yes,"  Felix  answered. 

"First  time?"  the  man  asked  shrewdly. 

''Yes," — and  Felix  wondered  why  it  should  be  the  first 
time.  Why,  living  only  five  hours  away  from  Chicago, 
had  he  never  gone  there  to  reconnoitre,  to  learn  to  find  his 
way  about,  to  get  the  lay  of  things?  It  had  been  stupid 
of  him  not  to. 

"I  came  to  Chicago  for  the  first  time  forty  years  ago," 
the  elderly  man  was  saying.  "And  I  was  just  about  as 
scared  as  you  are."  He  laughed  kindly,  and  tapped  Felix's 
knee.  "But  I  needn't  have  been.  Chicago's  a  fine  town. 
No  place  better  for  a  young  man  to  go.  You  don't  need  to 
worry,  my  boy.  Chicago's  on  the  lookout  for  bright  young 
people." 

Yes — but  that  was  just  what  was  bothering  Felix  Fay. 
He  was  afraid  he  was  not  a  bright  young  person  in  the 
ordinary  meaning  of  the  term. 

The  man  entered  upon  a  lively  account  of  his  early 
struggles  and  successes  in  the  hides  and  leather  business. 


Plans  25 

"What's  your  line?"  he  suddenly  asked,  smiling. 

"I — write,"  Felix  said,  embarrassed.  "I  want  to  get  a 
job  on  a  newspaper."  How  remote  that  seemed  from  the 
hides  and  leather  business ! 

"Well,  we've  got  some  fine  newspapers  in  Chicago.  I  read 
the  Tribune  myself.  I  always  turn  first  thing  to  the 
funny  column.  I  miss  it  when  I'm  out  of  town — doesn't 
seem  like  breakfast  is  complete  without  it."  He  paused, 
with  a  reminiscent  air.  "But  none  of  them  are  as  good  as 
'Gene  Field  used  to  be!  My,  how  I  did  enjoy  the  things 
he  wrote.  I  know  a  man  who  used  to  know  him  right  well, 
too;  tells  stories  about  him.  'Gene  was  a  great  old  boy." 
He  sighed. 

Felix  was  startled.  He  had  not  suspected  that  in  the  hides 
and  leather  business  there  was  room  for  this  quaint  literary 
sentimentalism.  .  .  . 

"What's  your  name?"  Felix  told  him.  "Mine's  Ander 
son—John  Anderson.  I'm  getting  off  here  at  Elgin.  You 
might  come  and  see  me  at  my  office  in  Chicago  some  time, 
and  tell  me  how  you're  getting  along.  I'll  give  you  my 
card.  .  .  .  Well,  Mr.  Fay,  you  drop  in  any  time — or  ring 
me  up— and  we'll  go  out  to  lunch.  I'll  take  you  to  a  nice 
chop-house.  Maybe,"  he  grinned,  "you'll  need  a  good  meal, 
now  and  then,  before  you  get  started.  You  just  ring  me  up !" 
He  shook  hands  warmly,  took  down  his  big  suitcase,  and  left 
the  train. 

3 

Felix  f.rowned.  It  was  pleasant,  of  course,  to  be  so 
genially  treated  by  a  stranger.  But  he  must  not  get  any  false 
ideas  of  Chicago  from  this  incident.  He  would  think  twice 
about  accepting  Mr.  John  Anderson's  invitation  to  come 
and  see  him;  and  he  would  certainly  not  come  if  he  were 
in  need  of  a  meal;  probably  Mr.  Anderson  would  have 
forgotten  all  about  him  by  the  next  day,  anyway.  He  put 
away  Mr.  Anderson's  card  in  the  pocket  in  which  his  letters 
of  introduction  were  stored.  Again  he  frowned,  took  out  his 
letters  of  introduction,  looked  at  them,  and  put  them  back. 


26  The  Briary-Bush 

He  could  forget  Mr.  Anderson's  card,  but  what  could  he 
do  with  those  letters  of  introduction? 

They  were  in  a  way  a  serious  embarrassment.  Helen 
would  expect  him  to  make  use  of  them.  ...  He  could  see 
himself  presenting  his  letter  to  Mr.  Blake  at  the  Community 
House,  and  being  regarded  with  puzzled  surprise.  "What 
does  he  want  of  us?"  Mr.  Blake  would  be  asking 
himself.  .  .  . 

Well,  what  did  he  want  of  them?     Nothing. 

He  had  a  great  notion  to  tear  those  letters  up  and  throw 
them  away  before  he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself  with 
them.  .  .  . 

4 

Chicago !  Endless  blocks  of  dwellings,  a  glimpse  of  great 
buildings,  and  then  the  dusky  gloom  of  a  huge  station.  He 
seized  his  suitcase,  descended  from  the  train,  and  heard 
his  name  called  questioningly. 

He  turned  to  meet  a  smiling,  straw-haired  youth,  who 
shook  his  hand,   and   relieved  him   of   his   suitcase.     "I'm 
right?     Helen  gave  me  a  good  description,  and  I  was  sure 
it  was  you !     My  name  is  Blake— Will  Blake.     Well,  how's 
Port  Royal?  And  my  friend  Hastings  of  the  Record?    And 
Judge  Beecher  and  Rabbi  Nathan,  Dr.  Truesdale  and  t 
rest  of  'em?     I  know  Port  Royal  quite  well,  I've  lecture 
there  so  much.     And  Helen  tells  me  you're  the  reporl 
that  gave  our  series  such  good  stories." 

Felix  bewilderedly  recognized  this  affable  youth  as 
university  instructor  whose  lectures  in  the  extension* 
on  sociological  problems  he  had  attended  and  reported 
he  realized  that  between  Port  Royal  and  Chicago,  so  i 
in  his  imagination,  there  were  at  least  some  few  human 
Even  so,  this  struck  him  as  being  in  the  nature  of  a  rema 
able  coincidence. 

Meanwhile,  Felix  had  been  escorted  to  a  streel 
was    dusk,   and   the   streets   were  crowded, 
friendly  questioning  served  to  distract  his  attention  from  the 
bewildering  hugeness  of  the  city.     With  but  the  slightest 


Plans  27 

opportunity  for  feeling  his  individual  insignificance  against 
this  new  background  of  rushing,  roaring  life,  he  was  talked 
half  way  across  Chicago  to  a  place  where,  at  an  intersection 
of  busy  and  dirty  little  streets,  rose  a  gracious  and  homelike 
building.  "This  is  Community  House,"  said  Blake.  "I'll 
take  you  right  up  to  your  room,  and  you  can  meet  the  Head 
and  the  residents  at  dinner." 

Left  alone  in  the  room — where,  as  his  escort  had  casually 
assured  him,  he  was  to  stay  until  he  had  made  other  plans 
— Felix  strove  to  regain  his  sense  of  the  verities. 

He  knew  already  of  the  existence,  and  the  purposes,  of 
Community  House.  It  was  one  of  those  institutions  which 
he  had  discussed,  knowingly  and  scornfully,  in  the  Socialist 
local  back  in  Port  Royal— it  was  one  of  the  "bourgeois- 
idealistic"  attempts  to  obscure,  by  means  of  a  futile  benevo 
lence,  the  class-struggle  between  the  rich  and  the  poor.  .  .  . 

His  actual  feeling,  however,  was  one  of  gratitude  toward 
the  cheerful  shelter  of  this  little  room.  He  went  to  the 
window.  It  was  strangely  exhilarating  to  look  out  over  the 
smoke  and  grime  of  this  tumble  of  roofs,  from  the  window 
of  a  room  so  instantly  and  pleasantly  his  own. 

He  had  a  curious  feeling  of  ease  and  security — a  feeling 
which  he  strove  to  repress.  .  .  . 

Secure,  and  at  ease — that  seemed  indeed  a  foolish  way  for 
one  to  feel  who  was  about  to  commence  the  grim  battle  of  life 
in  Chicago ! 


IV.  Surprises 


DURING  those  first  days  Felix  was  trying  hard — 
too  hard! — to  adjust  himself  to  the  world  of  reality:- 
which  after  all  has  its  kindly  aspects. 

The  second  day,  Felix  set  out  to  explore  Chicago.  He 
had  conned  on  the  map  and  fixed  in  his  mind  the  location  of 
various  streets;  but  as  the  points  of  the  compass  seemed, 
when  once  he  had  left  Community  House,  to  have  got 
strangely  twisted,  these  preliminary  lessons  were  confusing 
rather  than  otherwise.  After  a  brief  survey  of  the  loop 
district,  he  found  himself  looking  from  the  steps  of  the 
public  library,  at  Michigan  Avenue,  and  beyond  that  the 
lake. 

Summer  had  just  turned  into  autumn ;  it  was  a  cool  day, 
and  there  was  a  light  wind  glancing  over  the  surface  of  the 
water.     Felix  drew  a  long  breath,  and  looked  down  the 
Avenue.     Only  a  few  people  were  on  the  sidewalk  at  that 
hour,    but    those    few,    with    their   air   of    infinite    leisure, 
gave   it   the   quality   of   a   boulevard.     Along   the    smooth 
roadway,  still  wet  from  a  rain  which  had  fallen  during  tftl 
night,  a  few  motor  cars  skimmed  by ;  and  the  people  in  th<$ 
seemed   to   have   that   same  air1  of    careless   light-hearted 
enjoyment  of  life.     To  the  south,  great  clouds  of  white  steam 
arose  from  beside  a  black  shed  which  Felix  guessed  to 
Illinois   Central   station,   and   floated   airily   across  tc 
the  outlines  of  the  buildings  that  faced  the  Avenue, 
stood  still,  wondering  at  himself.     There  was  something 
about  this:  Chicago  seemed  beautiful!     But  doubtless  that 
notion  merely  proved  him  to  be  what  he  was,  a  boy  from  the 
country. 

Half  ashamed  of  the  thrill  which  he  got  out  of  this 


Surprises  29 

sight,  he  crossed  to  the  building  on  the  lake  front  which 
must  be  the  Art  Institute.  But  he  found  its  pictures  dull 
in  comparison  with  the  one  he  had  left  outside.  He  went 
back  to  the  street,  and  sniffed  eagerly  at  the  wind  from  off 
the  lake.  He  was  experiencing  a  curious  emotional  release 
in  the  presence  of  its  vastness.  Not  only  himself,  but 
Chicago,  suddenly  seemed  small  at  its  side.  A  city 
perched  on  the  edge  of  a  huge  inland  sea ! 

And  then,  convinced  that  his  mood  was  an  unrealistic 
one,  he  took  the  south  side  elevated  to  the  stockyards.  .  .  . 
In  its  gruesome  realities  he  would  find  an  antidote  to  this 
romanticism. 

He  was  one  of  a  long  queue  of  visitors  who  were  led  from 
one  building  to  another  and  lectured  at  and  shown  the  sights. 
After  an  hour  he  had  seen  nothing  sufficiently  gruesome  to 
be  exciting,  and  he  was  becoming  annoyed  with  his  fellow- 
visitors.  They  stared  at  the  workers  with  a  kind  of  dull 
unimaginative  pity.  Felix  resented  those  stares.  He  felt 
that  he  understood  these  workers;  had  he  not  been  one  of 
them  himself  in  factory  days  at  Port  Royal!  There  was 
something  indecent  in  this  gaping  and  pointing.  He  dropped 
out  of  line  and  went  away. 

He  had  missed  the  great  scene,  still  to  come — the  cattle- 
killing.  But  he  reflected  that  he  was  a  butcher's  son. 
This  was  merely  a  slaughter-house  on  a  grand  scale.  He  had 
nothing  new  to  learn  from  the  stockyards.  .  .  . 


But  he  was  inevitably  depressed  by  his  day  of  confused 
sight-seeing;  the  hugeness  of  the  city  had  in  the  end  made 
him  feel  useless  and  helpless.  It  was  a  relief  to  meet  again 
at  dinner  the  pleasant  men  and  women  residents  of  Com 
munity  House  who  had  been  so  gracious  to  him  the  evening 
before. 

His  shyness  had  lifted  sufficiently  the  previous  evening  to 
let  him  engage  in  a  lively  argument.  There  had  been  some 
thing  very  gratifying  to  him  in  the  way  they  listened  to 
what  he  said — without  agreement,  to  be  sure,  but  on  terms 


30  The  Briary-Bush 

of  interested  equality.  It  had  made  him  feel  at  home; 
and  it  was  only  afterward,  in  his  room,  that  he  had  realized 
the  duty  of  guarding  himself  against  these  easy  reassurances. 
He  told  himself  that  these  people  were  all  engaged  in 
trying  to  obscure  the  grim  realities  of  life.  But  he  must  not 
let  himself  be  deceived.  Their  friendliness  was  well-meant ; 
but  it  had  to  be  discounted.  ...  It  was  all  too  well  calculated 
to  soothe  a  bruised  egotism,  to  relax  a  mood  of  stern  self- 
abasement — to  make  an  impressionable  young  man  forget 
that  he  was  a  mere  unconsidered  atom  in  a  cruel  chaos. 
This  easy  hospitality  could  not  be  the  truth  about  Chicago. 
It  was  a  mask,  behind  which  the  real  Chicago  hid  its  terrible, 
grim  face.  .  .  . 

The  argument  last  night  had  been  about  literature  and  the 
way  it  was  taught  in  the  schools.  Concerning  school  methods 
of  dealing  with  poetry  Felix  had  been  particularly  scornful. 
Tonight  Blake  took  up  the  argument '  again,  and  Felix 
explained  himself  vigorously.  Only  those  who  could  do  a 
thing,  he  insisted,  were  capable  of  really  understanding  it; 
and  it  did  not  matter  that  they  did  it  badly — so  long  as 
they  thereby  came  to  understand  it  creatively. 

A  red-haired  young  woman  at  the  further  end  of  the  long 
table  was  the  only  one  who  appeared  to  take  his  arguments 
with  any  seriousness;  at  least  he  thought  he  saw  approval 
in  her  eyes.  The  others,  or  so  it  seemed  to  him,  were  only 
politely  amused  at  the  intensity  of  his  feelings  on  the  sub 
ject.  But  when  he  had  concluded  his  argument,  the  mother 
ly-looking  woman  at  the  head  of  the  table  said,  "Perhaps  if 
Mr.  Fay  feels  like  that,  he  will  be  willing  to  undertake  a 
class  in  English  literature  twice  a  week  for  us.  Mr.  Hays, 
who  has  had  the  class,  is  leaving  town.  You'll  have  a  chance, 
Mr.  Fay,  to  try  out  your  theories  on  twenty  very  interested 
young  people — who  I'm  sure  would  be  glad  to  learn  to  pro 
duce  literature  as  well  as  to  appreciate  it.  I  think,  myself, 
there's  something  to  your  theory — though  I  don't  hold  much 
by  theories  any  more.  I  think  a  great  deal  depends  on  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  they  are  carried  out.  I'm  sure  you 
will  make  an  enthusiastic  teacher — I  only  hope  you  won't 


Surprises  31 

become  too  quickly  discouraged.  Do  you  think  you'd  like 
to  try  it?" 

Gracious  and  even  flattering  as  this  offer  was,  yet  the  chal 
lenge  in  it  rather  staggered  Felix.  He  had  not  expected  to  be 
called  upon  to  prove  the  correctness  of  his  theory  in  actual 
practice ;  he  had  never  supposed  that  he  would  ever  have  the 
opportunity.  Teaching  was  a  province  sacred  to  those  who 
themselves  had  been  elaborately  taught — certainly  not  to  be 
intruded  upon  by  a  youth  who  had  never  finished  high  school ! 
Yet,  if  he  believed  in  his  own  theory,  he  ought  to  be  willing 
to  put  it  to  the  test.  He  ought  to  take  up  this  challenge. 
But  did  he  dare  risk  a  humiliating  failure?  And  then  his 
eyes  met  those  of  the  red-haired  girl  down  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table ;  and  he  knew  that  she  expected  him  to  do  it. 

"Thank  you  for  the  chance,"  he  said.     "I'll  be  glad  to." 

The  talk  swept  on  to  other  things,  leaving  him  a  little 
dazed.  He  had  been  quite  casually  accepted  as  one  whose 
abilities  might  be  of  value;  he  had  astonishingly  become  a 
part  of  this  institution;  and  upon  no  false  pretences — for  in 
his  argument  he  had  candidly  exposed  the  deficiencies  of  his 
formal  schooling.  These  people  were  willing  to  try  him  out. 
And  they  went  on  talking  as  though  nothing  strange  had  oc 
curred.  .  .  .  The  loneliness  and  helplessness  in  which  he  had 
been  submerged  by  his  day  of  sight-seeing,  ebbed  away. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  something  more  about  your  idea  ?  It's 
very  interesting  to  me,  because  I'm  in  charge  of  a  group  of 
children  who  are  doing  plays." 

The  red-haired  girl  was  speaking  to  him  as  they  drifted  out 
of  the  dining-room.  She  was  a  slender  young  person,  of 
about  twenty-five  years,  with  an  interestedly  impersonal  man 
ner.  She  turned  to  a  young  man  at  her  other  side,  an  affec 
ted-looking  young  man,  with  a  wide  black  ribbon  depending 
from  his  nose-glasses,  and  said:  "Paul,  is  your  model  set 
ready?  Let  us  have  a  private  view  of  it." 

"Charmed,"  the  young  man  replied,  in  a  mincing  accent. 
Felix  disliked  him  at  once. 

"Paul,"   the   red-haired   girl   explained,   turning   back  to 


32  The  Briary-Bush 

Felix,  "is  our  scenic  genius.  He  makes  the  most  wonderful 
little  sets  out  of  painted  cardboard,  and  then  we  go  and 
spoil  them  trying  to  carry  them  out  in  our  theatre.  He  won't 
even  come  and  look  at  them  when  they're  finished — don't  you 
think  that's  unkind  ?" 

"Oh,  please  don't  say  that,  Miss  Prentiss !"  the  young  man 
protested,  still  in  that  tone  which  seemed  to  Felix  unnatural 
and  "prissy."  At  the  foot  of  the  wide  stairs  he  halted,  and 
put  a  finger  to  his  lips.  "I  don't  know  really  whether  I  ought 
to  show  you  the  set — just  yet.  It's  not  quite — " 

"I'm  sure  it's  perfectly  all  right,"  the  girl  said  firmly,  and 
proceeded  up  the  stairs.  To  Felix  she  continued  over  her 
shoulder :  "It's  a  set  for  our  'Prince  and  Pauper'.  I'm  mad 
to  see  what  it's  like.  Paul  ought  to  do  something  quite  stun 
ning  with  it." 

"But  I've  only  got  one  scene  done,  you  know,"  Paul 
objected.  "And  even  that's  uncertain,  you  understand ;  the 
idea  for  the  whole  thing — "  he  waved  his  hands  helplessly; 
Felix  noted  that  they  were  graceful  hands  and  beautifully 
manicured — "hasn't  quite  come  yet !" 

He  paused  again,  doubtfully,  but  the  girl  ran  relentessly 
ip  the  stairs.  On  the  top  floor  she  stopped  in  front  of  a  door. 
"Now  don't  make  any  excuses,  Paul,  but  just  let  us  in." 

Paul  obediently  opened  the  door,  snapped  on  the  lights, 
and  they  entered  a  room  of  which  the  walls  were  covered  with 
tattered  Persian  rugs,  the  shelves  sprinkled  with  curious 
bronze  figures,  and  the  floor,  along  one  wall,  lined  with  a  row 
of  books.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  was  a  drawing-table, 
littered  with  scraps  of  gold  and  silver  paper,  coloured 
crayons,  and  tiny  bottles  of  coloured  inks.  In  the  corner 
with  a  wire  running  down  from  the  electric  fixture  in  the 
ceiling,  was  a  pot  of  glue.  Felix  walked  over  to  the  wall, 
glanced  down  at  the  row  of  books  on  the  floor,  and  noted  a  set 
of  the  Yellow  Book  and  an  odd  volume  of  the  Savoy. 

Paul  had  taken  up  a  small  model  of  a  stage-set  and  was 
looking  at  it  anxiously. 

"Oh,"  the  girl  cried,  "let  me  see !" 

He  put  it  into  her  hands,  sat  down  at  the  drawing-table, 


Surprises  33 

jumped  up  and  turned  on  the  current  under  his  pot  of  glue, 
and  sat  down  again,  intent  upon  a  pasteboard  figure  which  he 
had  taken  from  the  tiny  stage. 

"Dear  me,  this  is  all  wrong,"  he  said  in  distress,  stripping 
the  tinsel  from  the  figure.  "How  could  I  ?" 

"Look,"  the  girl  said  to  Felix,  beckoning  him  with  her 
head.  "This  is  the  palace  scene.  See— 

"Do  take  it  over  to  your  room  to  explain  it,"  Paul  said  pet 
ulantly.  "You  distract  me." 

"Come,"  said  the  girl,  and  they  entered  the  room  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hall.  But  in  a  moment  Paul  had  followed 
them  anxiously.  "I  must  tell  you  that  the  colours  here  are 
not  right,"  he  said,  hovering  over  the  model,  which  the  girl 
had  set  down  on  her  table.  "No  blues — no  blues  at  all! 
blues  go  in  the  next  scene.  Nothing  but  red  and  gold  and 
black.  And  this  arch  will  be  different — more  sombre.  The 
throne  higher — dwarfing  the  human  figures.  Very  high — 
twenty  inches,  an  inch  to  the  foot,  twenty  feet  high !" 

"But  Paul,"  said  the  girl,  "you  know  our  proscenium-arch 
is  only  twelve  feet  high !" 

"I  can't  help  that,  my  dear  young  woman,"  the  young  man 
replied  with  hauteur.  "I  know  well  enough  that  you'll  ruin 
my  beautiful  scene.  But  in  my  mind—  Oh,  pewter 
platter!"  His  voice,  uttering  this  preposterous  exclamation, 
had  become  shrill,  and  he  dashed  to  the  door.  "My  glue- 
pot  !"  he  cried,  and  disappeared. 

The  girl  sat  down  and  began  to  laugh.  "Isn't  he  funny  ?" 
she  said. 

"Funny  ?"  Felix  echoed  dubiously. 

"But  he  does  make  nice  stage-pictures  anyway,"  she  said. 

Felix  looked  at  the  model.  "But  are  these  airs  natural  to 
him,  or  is  he  just  putting  them  on  to  impress  people? 
Where  is  he  from?" 

"Guess!" 

Felix  thought  he  saw  a  light.     "London?" 

The  girl  laughed  again.     "Arkansas,"  she  said. 

"What !" 

"Yes,  just  as  he  is  now,  from  Arkansas — glasses,  accent, 


34  The  Briary-Bush 

Yellow  Book  and  everything.  I've  a  kind  of  notion  why  it 
is,  if  you'd  like  to  hear  it." 

"I  would." 

"Then  make  yourself  comfortable."  She  motioned  toward 
the  couch,  which  with  its  pillows  was  the  only  suggestion  of 
ease  in  her  rather  bare  and  workmanlike  room;  a  writing- 
table,  a  typewriter  on  its  stand,  and  a  long  shelf  of  books, 
gave  it  an  air  quite  different  from  the  room  across  the  hall. 
She  drew  over  a  chair  for  herself  in  front  of  the  couch. 

"Don't  blame  him,"  she  said.  "We're  all  a  little  like  that— 
I  mean,  queer.  I'm  sure  I  seem  quite  as  queer  as  that  to  my 
family  down  in  Springfield.  If  you  live  in  Arkansas,  and 
want  to  make  lovely  stage-pictures,  you  are  a  freak ;  or  you 
become  one  trying  to  keep  from  being  dull  like  everybody 
else.  It's  inevitable." 

"You  frighten  me,"  Felix  said  soberly.  "Am  I  a  freak? 
I  suppose  I  am — but  somehow  I  don't  like  the  idea." 

"Do  you  want  to  make  a  million  dollars  ?" 

"No,  not  at  all." 

"Then  of  course  you're  a  freak."     She  laughed  cheerfully. 

"And  what  does  Chicago  think  of — of  us?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  Chicago  is  beginning  to  realize  that 
it  needs  us.  Chicago  wants  to  be  a  metropolis.  And  all  the 
stock-yards  in  the  world  won't  make  a  metropolis.  Enough 
of  us,  given  a  free-hand — can.  And  Chicago  knows  it.  Just 
now  we  are  at  a  premium  here.  We  can  be  as  crazy  as  we 
like !" 

"I  wonder?" 

"You  ought  to  have  known  the  scenic  genius  who  preceded 
Paul.  Dick  Bernitz,  his  name  was.  He  was  a  wild  one 
Gloom — despair — and,  as  it  turned  out,  drugs.  He  came 
from  Nevada.  He  affected  evening  clothes — wanted  to  wear 
them  all  day  long,  in  fact!  Baudelaire  was  his  god.  We 
were  too  tame  for  him.  He  left  us,  and  starved  and  froze 
somewhere  in  the  slums — still  in  his  evening  clothes ;  and  got 
pneumonia  and  died.  And  Dick  was — just  a  nice  boy  who 
wanted  to  do  beautiful  pictures  and  poems.  Nevada  did  that 
to  him." 


Surprises  35 

''But —  why  blame  Nevada  ?" 

"His  father  was  in  real-estate.  He  wanted  Dick  to  sell 
real-estate." 

"Well,  and  after  all,  why  not?  One  must  do  something 
ordinary — to  make  a  living." 

"Why  didn't  you  do  something  ordinary?  Why  did  you 
come  to  Chicago  ?" 

Felix  was  silent. 

"I've  kind  of  got  you  bothered,  haven't  I  ?"  said  the  girl 
maliciously. 

"You've  given  me  something  to  think  about."     He  rose. 

"But  I  haven't  asked  you  yet  what  I  was  going  to.  Will 
you  do  a  play  for  us  ?" 

"I  can't  do  plays!" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can.  You  write  poetry  and  stories  and 
things,  don't  you?"" 

"Do  I  give  myself  away  as  plainly  as  that?" 

The  girl  laughed.  "You  ought  to  know  that  an  institution 
like  this  is  a  gathering  place  for  idealists  of  all  sorts  and 
kinds.  I  know  the  chief  varieties,  and  you  aren't  any  of  the 
sociological  sorts,  so  you  must  be  one  of  the  artist  kind. 
Besides,  didn't  I  hear  you  talk  at  dinner?" 

Felix  grinned  shamefacedly.  "I  didn't  disguise  myself 
very  well,"  he  admitted.  "But  anyway — " 

He  walked  impatiently  across  the  little  room.  His  mind 
was  in  a  state  of  strange  upheaval.  All  his  ideas  about 
Chicago  and  himself  were  being  upset.  He  ought  not  to 
listen  to  this  girl.  He  must  not  let  her  confuse  his  plans.  In 
particular  he  must  not  become  interested  in  writing.  He 
had  put  all  that  aside  for  the  present. 

His  lips  twisted  in  an  uneasy  grimace.  Why,  at  this 
moment,  when  his  mind  must  be  braced  to  meet  the  impact 
of  realities,  should  he  let  himself  be  drugged  with  the  opium 
of  dreams? 

Already,  at  her  mere  word,  the  old  numbing  desire  had 
come  in  a  new  guise — a  vague,  feverish  yearning  toward 
the  puppet-world  of  the  stage:  fascinating  half-formed  ideas 
for  plays  rose  like  bubbles  in  his  mind. 


36  The  Briary-Bush 

It  was  a  feeling  like  home-sickness. 

He  must  not  indulge  it.  Of  course,  it  would  be  fun 
to  write  a  play  for  this  girl,  and  help  invent  scenery  and 
costumes  for  it.  But  that  was  not  what  he  had  come  to 
Chicago  for.  He  must  put  aside  all  enthusiasms  which  had 
no  relation  to  the  world  of  work-a-day  reality.  The  very 
fact  that  he  was  so  much  interested  in  the  idea  proved  that 
it  was  wrong.  .  .  . 

He  saw  now  that  it  was  foolish  to  have  ever  come  to  this 
place — this  refuge  for  idealists  and  dreamers.  The  thought 
of  hunting  up  a  new  lodging  that  night  suggested  itself ;  but 
of  course  it  would  be  hard  to  find  another  place  half  so 
comfortable — and  he  must  consider  his  very  limited 
finances.  .  .  . 

"Anyway,"  he  said,  pausing  in  front  of  the  girl,  "I  won't 
write  you  a  play !" 

"Oh,  yes  you  will !"  she  said. 

A  knock,  and  the  door  burst  open,  and  Paul  rushed  in  with 
a  new-made  cardboard  figure,  dressed  in  gold  tinsel.  "At 
last !"  he  cried,  holding  it  up.  "This  will  be  the  key-note  of 
the  play !" 

"Splendid !"  cried  the  girl,  glancing  at  it.  "And  now  I'm 
going  to  take  Mr.  Fay  down  and  show  him  our  theatre." 

As  they  went  out,  Felix  noted  on  her  door  a  card  which 
revealed  that  her  first  name  was  Rose-Ann.  It  seemed  a 
singularly  fitting  name  for  her,  somehow. 


V.  The  Struggle  for  Existence 


A  STRANGE  and  perturbing  girl !  .  .  .     He  had  not  be 
lieved,  he  wished  not  to  believe,  what  she  had  told 
him — that  one  could  be  fool  and  dreamer  and  yet 
make  terms  with  Chicago. 

But  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  it  began  to  seem  as  if 
she  were  right. 

Felix's  other  letter  of  introduction  was  to  Mr.  Give  Bangs, 
editorial  writer  on  the  Evening  Chronicle.  Very  diffidently, 
after  having  made  futile  inquires  at  other  newspapers  during 
the  week,  he  went  one  afternoon  to  present  the  letter. 

Some  one  in  the  front  office  said,  "Back  there  under  the 
mezzanine— the  first  office  to  the  right."  He  found  a  little 
built-in  coop,  and  opened  the  door.  The  space  inside  was 
crowded  with  desks  and  tables,  the  floor  littered  with  papers, 
the  air  filled  with  cigarette  smoke.  Through  the  windows, 
facing  on  an  alley  overhung  by  tall  buildings,  no  sunlight 
came,  and  electric  lamps  on  the  desks  pierced  holes  of  light 
through  the  twilight  atmosphere.  At  one  of  the  desks  a 
plump  man  lounged,  smoking  a  cigarette.  A  long,  lean  man 
in  shirt-sleeves  was  pounding  a  typewriter.  A  surly-looking 
young  man  with  a  careless  Windsor  tie,  and  a  lock  of  hair 
that  fell  over  one  eye,  sat  at  a  third  desk,  reading  a  book. 

The  plump  man  looked  up  with  a  good-humoured  smile, 
and  Felix  approached  him,  saying,  "Mr.  Bangs?"  The 
plump  man  waved  a  hand  towards  the  surly-looking  youth. 
"That's  Mr.  Bangs,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Bangs  looked  up,  frowned  at  Felix,  and  said,  "You 
want  to  see  me?"  He  jumped  up,  and  indicated  a  chair 
vaguely.  "Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  and  taking  up  a  type- 

37 


38  The  Briary-Bush 

written  sheet  from  his  desk  went  hurriedly  out  of  the  office. 

Felix  looked  at  the  chair.  It  was  piled  high  with  ex 
changes,  so  he  remained  standing.  The  plump  man 
continued  to  smoke  dreamily.  The  long,  lean  man  thought 
fully  wrote  on.  Felix  waited.  Mr.  Bangs  did  not  return. 

It  was,  Felix  felt  uncomfortably,  just  what  he  had  expected 
— it  was  silly  to  have  come  here  with  that  letter. 

He  glanced  down  at  the  desk,  saw  the  book  which  Mr. 
Bangs  had  been  reading,  noted  the  name  on  the  cover,  and 
picked  it  up  with  a  sudden  interest.  He  looked  at  the  title 
page,  the  date ;  and  then  turned  the  leaves,  tenderly,  affection 
ately.  .  .  . 

He  had  quite  forgotten  Mr.  Bangs,  and  the  nature  of  his 
errand. 

Mr.  Clive  Bangs,  having  handed  the  typewritten  sheet  to 
the  foreman  of  the  composing-room,  walked  back  slowly. 
He  knew  very  well  who  his  visitor  was.  Helen's  letter 
announcing  his  arrival  was  in  his  pocket.  "He  is,"  Helen 
had  written  him,  "just  as  crazy  as  you  are,  Clive!"  But  he 
distrusted  Helen's  judgment.  ...  It  was  one  thing  to 
welcome  to  Chicago  one  more  of  the  too  few  sophisticated 
spirits  of  the  mid-west ;  it  was  another  to  have  on  his  hands 
some  pale,  gawky,  helpless  youth  who  had  been  falsely 
encouraged  by  country  librarians  in  the  notion  that  he  could 
write !  What  seemed  a  prodigy  out  in  Iowa  might  be  merely 
one  of  the  army  of  unemployed  and  unemployable  here  in 
Chicago.  Clive  had  tried  to  help  these  prodigies  before; 
and  he  knew  that  a  painful  addiction  to  the  style  of  Ruskin, 
combined  with  egotism  and  a  total  lack  of  ideas,  was  no  easy 
malady  to  cure.  He  rather  flinched  from  the  prospect  of 
taking  Helen's  protege  in  hand.  .  .  .  But,  still — "crazy  as 
you  are" — Helen  might  know  what  she  was  talking  about. 

Stopping  in  the  doorway,  Clive  looked  at  his  problem  in 
person.  He  had  picked  up  that  book — that  H.  G.  Wells 
book.  .  .  .  Those  were  the  days  just  before  "Tono-Bungay," 
and  the  name  of  H.  G.  Wells  was  as  yet  cherished  by  only 
a  few  enthusiasts.  Besides,  this  was  the  least  known  of  H. 
G.  Wells'  writings,  and  one  who  might  have  heard  of  Wells  as 


The  Struggle  for  Existence  39 

a  writer  of  pseudo-scientific  yarns  would  be  puzzled  by  it. 
Give  stood  for  a  moment  trying  to  gauge  the  quality  of  Felix 
Fay's  response  to  the  volume  in  his  hand ;  then  he  went  up 
to  him. 

Felix  awoke  to  find  Mr.  Bangs  standing  beside  him,  and 
looking  at  him  quizzically. 

"I  see  you're  looking  at  my  latest  Wells  find,"  said  Mr. 
Bangs. 

"The  first  English  edition !  Where  did  you  pick  it  up  ?" 
Felix  asked.  'In  a  second-hand  store?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Bangs.     "Forty  cents!     At  Downer's." 

Felix  laid  the  book  down  reverently.  "I  wonder,"  he  said, 
"if  they  have  any  other  Wells'  things  there.  There's  one  of 
his  books  I've  never  been  able  to  come  across  anywhere — • 
'The  Island  of  Doctor  Moreau.'  Do  you  know  it?" 

"I  have  the  only  copy  I've  ever  seen  in  Chicago,"  said  Give 
Bangs.  "I'll  lend  it  to  you." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  Felix  said  gratefully.  "I  found  'The 
Time  Machine'  in  an  old  junk-shop  in  Port  Royal  last 
summer,  and  that  made  The  Island  of  Doctor  Moreau'  the 
only  thing  of  Wells'  I  hadn't  read — I  suppose  you  know 
'Kipps'?  And  'Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham'?" 

Mr.  Bangs  nodded.  "This  book,"  he  said,  indicating  the 
volume  on  the  desk,  "isn't  so  well  known  as  it  might  be." 
He  took  a  cigarette  and  passed  Felix  the  box  with  an  uncon 
scious  gesture. 

Give  Bangs  had  ceased  to  judge  this  young  man.  He 
had  accepted  him.  After  all,  how  many  people  were 
there  in  Chicago  who  had  read  "First  and  Last  Things"? 
So  it  was,  once  upon  a  time,  when  two  men  met  who  had  both 
read  an  obscure  book  of  poems  about  Wine  and  Death  by  one 
Edward  Fitzgerald. 

Felix  lighted  his  cigarette  from  Give  Bangs'  match.  "I 
brought  my  copy  to  Chicago  with  me,"  he  said.  "It's  the 
only  book  I  did  bring." 

Give  Bangs  looked  at  his  watch  and  picked  up  his  hat. 
Suddenly  Felix  remembered,  and,  put  his  hand,  embar- 
rassedly,  in  his  pocket  for  his  letter  of  introduction. 


4O  The  Briary-Bush 

Give  Bangs  laughed.  "Never  mind!"  he  said.  "I  know 
who  you  are.  Come  on,  let's  have  a  drink." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  sitting  in  a  barroom  called 
"The  Tavern,"  ordering  ale  with  bitters,  which  Give  Bangs 
recommended  as  the  specialty  of  the  place. 

"So  you  are  Helen's  wild  young  man  from  Iowa!"  said 
Give.  "I  wish  Helen  were  here,  and  we  three  would  get 
drunk  together." 

Felix  was  startled  at  the  idea  of  Helen,  the  beautiful  and 
condescending  goddess  of  the  library-shrine  of  his  youth, 
getting  drunk.  .  .  . 

Give  laughed.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "I  mean  on  ideas. 
Though  for  my  part,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  it  takes  a 
little  alcohol  to  put  the  practical  part  of  my  mind  asleep  and 
set  free  my  imagination.  My  mind  is  disposed  in  layers. 
After  the  first  drink  I  cease  to  be  interested  in  politics  and 
social  reform.  After  the  second  I  forget  the  girl  about 
whom  I  happen  to  be  worrying  at  the  time.  And  with 
the  third  drink,  I  enter  the  realm  of  pure  theory/' 

The  tall  glasses  of  ale  were  set  before  them. 

"Here's  to  Utopia !"  said  Give. 


It  was  only  when  Felix  had  warmly  parted  from  his  new 
friend,  and  agreed  to  come  over  the  next  noon  for  lunch 
and  a  visit  to  Downer's,  that  he  realized — with  some  chagrin 
— that  he  had  failed  to  say  anything  to  Mr.  Give  Bangs  about 
getting  a  job  as  a  reporter  on  the  Evening  Chronicle. 
•  In  fact,  he  had  fallen  very  neatly  into  the  trap  prepared 
for  him  by  his  own  fatal  temperament.  He  had  given  him 
self  away  at  the  very  start.  And  Bangs,  who  appeared  to 
indulge  some  theoretical  and  visionary  traits  as  a  relaxation 
to  the  sober  work  of  helping  get  out  a  great  daily  news 
paper,  had  enjoyed  his  moon-calfishness :  but  to  what  end? 

Going  back  to  his  room  at  Community  House,  Felix 
gravely  and  dispassionately  considered  the  question  of  what 
impression  he  had  made.  "On  the  one  hand,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "it  is  doubtless  true  that  Mr.  Bangs  must  enjoy 


The  Struggle  for  Existence  41 

coming  across  another  person  who  shares  his  own  literary 
tastes.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  these  tastes  are  in  the  nature 
of  an  avocation  for  him,  and  my  possession  of  them  proves 
nothing  whatever  as  to  my  fitness  for  a  newspaper  job. 
Suppose  he  had  happened  to  be  enthusiastic  about  Japanese 
prints;  suppose  he  had  just  bought  a  Kiyonaga,  and  I  had 
looked  at  it  and  praised  it ;  he  would  have  been  pleased  to  find 
some  one  who  knew  the  difference  between  a  Kiyonaga  and  a 
Kunisada — but  would  he  have  thought  that  a  reason  for 
helping  me  to  get  a  newspaper  job?  I'm  afraid  not." 

Felix  was  pleased  with  the  coolness  of  his  reasoning 
under  circumstances  where  another  person  might  have 
built  up  vain  hopes.  And  in  any  event,  Clive  Bangs  was  a 
friend;  and  friendship  had  a  value  of  its  own.  He  would 
not  embarrass  Clive  Bangs  with  any  requests  for  help;  he 
would  take  what  their  friendship  had  to  give,  and  be  glad 
of  it. 

Accordingly,  it  was  without  any  ulterior  motive  that  he 
went  to  lunch  with  Bangs  next  day.  Again  they  talked 
literature  and  ideas;  they  explored  Downer's  together,  and 
Felix  picked  up  a  second  volume  to  complete  his  Muses' 
Library  edition  of  the  poems  of  John  Donne:  and  they 
strolled  back  to  the  office  of  the  Chronicle,  where  Felix 
D^came  acquainted  with  the  other  editorial  writers. 

The  long,  lean  man  was  a  New  Englander  named  Hosmer 
Flint ;  he  corresponded  very  much  to  Felix's  idea  of  what  the 
editorial  writer  of  a  great  daily  newspaper  should  be,  for  he 
had  a  mind  incredibly  stored  with  statistics  of  all  kinds.  The 
other  was  the  chief  editorial  writer — a  man  of  fifty,  plump 
and  dimpled,  with  a  childlike  charm  of  manner  which  made 
it  natural  for  every  one  to  call  him  "Willie" — his  other  name 
being  Smith. 

Willie  Smith  genially  expressed  to  Felix  the  hope  that 
there  might  be  something  for  him  on  the  Chronicle,  and 
when  the  managing  editor  happened  in  he  introduced  Felix  to 
him  casually  as  a  young  man  who  was  looking  for  a  news 
paper  job;  but  Felix  understood  that  this  was  simply  Willie's 
good  nature,  and  refused  to  take  the  possibility  seriously.  He 


42  The  Rriary-Bush 

found  his  new  acquaintances  agreeable  to  talk  to,  however, 
and  fell  into  the  habit  of  dropping  into  the  editorial  office  in 
the  slack  part  of  the  afternoon,  for  a  half -hour's  talk. 
Having  no  economic  reason  for  pretending  to  be  anything  but 
himself  in  their  presence,  he  talked  about  the  things  that 
really  interested  him — socialism  and  anarchism  and  life  and 
art. 

He  permitted  himself  these  idle  pleasures  only  after  hours 
dutifully  spent  in  annoying  the  editors  of  five  or  six  other 
papers  with  a  brisk  and  efficient  presentation  of  his  useful 
ness.  He  had  to  appear  so  preternaturally  capable  and  alert 
on  these  occasions  that  it  was  a  relief  to  be  able  to  throw  off 
the  disguise  and  loaf  and  invite  his  soul  in  the  editorial  room 
of  the  Evening  Chronicle.  It  was,  as  he  sometimes  reproach 
fully  told  himself,  a  concession  to  his  inborn  weakness,  and 
just  so  much  time  lost  from  his  task  of  getting  a  newspaper 
job. 

3 

But  one  could  not  look  for  a  job  all  the  time.  It  was  with 
only  slight  compunction  that  he  fell  into  the  custom  of  spend 
ing  his  evenings  in  the  company  of  Rose-Ann — sometimes 
talking  in  her  room,  sometimes  in  Paul's  watching  him  invent 
his  beautiful  and  fantastic  toy-scenery,  and  again  in  the  tiny 
Community  Theatre,  helping  them  make  costumes  and  build 
stage-sets. 

It  was,  it  seemed,  to  the  fascination  of  the  tiny  theater  it 
self,  as  much  as  to  Rose-Ann's  persuasions,  that  he  presently 
succumbed,  and  found  himself  writing  a  little  play  for  a 
group  of  children — a  play  about  the  further  adventures  of  the 
Pied  Piper  and  the  boys  and  girls  who  followed  him  into  the 
mountain.  .  .  .  He  felt  rather  like  one  of  those  children  him 
self,  lured  by  some  irresistible  music  away  from  the  daylit 
world  of  ambition  into  the  hollow  hill  of  fantasy.  .  .  .  Rose- 
Ann  approved  the  play  enthusiastically,  and  the  children  of 
her  group,  assigning  the  parts  among  themselves,  began  spon 
taneously  to  learn  it  by  heart. 

Meantime,  rehearsals  of  a  sort  were  going  on  for  the 


The  Struggle  for  Existence  43 

"Prince  and  Pauper."  Rose- Ann  had  her  own  way  of 
teaching.  She  became,  it  seemed,  herself  a  child,  and  was 
accepted  by  the  others  as  such;  they  quarreled  and  made 
up  with  her,  kissed  her  and  made  faces  at  her  and  petted 
her,  exactly  as  if  s'he  were  one  of  themselves;  and  Felix, 
watching  these  scenes,  wished  that  he,  too,  had  that 
capacity  for  childlikeness,  so  that  he  could  join  in  the  fun 
on  such  terms  of  innocent  intimacy.  But  he  felt  dreadfully 
grown-up  and  awkward,  and  Rose-Ann,  on  her  knees  amid 
her  playmates,  laughing  and  talking  and  acting  one  part  or 
another  with  the  utter  abandon  of  childhood's  "pretending"- 
she  was  the  youngest  of  them  all ;  indeed,  she  seemed  more 
than  anything  else  a  delightful  doll — a  marvellous  talking  and 
laughing  doll  of  gold  and  ivory. 

Mrs.  Perkins— big,  fat,  comfortable  Mrs.  Perkins,  still 
young-looking  though  reputed  to  be  a  grandmother,  who 
lived  in  the  neighborhood  and  came  to  the  theater  to  sew  cos 
tumes  for  them,  and  whom  everybody,  without  any  disres 
pect,  called  "Perk" — beckoned  him  over  one  day  to  her  corner 
as  he  stood  admiring  Rose- Ann  with  her  children,  and  whis 
pered  to  him : 

"You  just  feel  like  putting  her  in  your  pocket  and  carrying 
her  off,  don't  you  ?" 

Felix  grinned  at  her.  "How  do  you  know  ?"  he  whispered 
back.  Yes,  she  was  a  wonderful  little  toy-girl,  less  and  more 
than  human,  that  one  wanted  to  hold  and  touch  and  play 
with,  and  take  home  to  keep !  But  how  did  she,  old  Granny 
Perk,  know  how  a  young  man  felt  about  it ! 

"Oh,  I  know !"  and  Perk  smiled  her  comfortable  smile.  "I 
was  a  girl  myself  once.  Little  Miss  Rosy-Posy  knows  just 
how  nice  she  looks  to  you,  and  don't  you  doubt  it !" 

Yes,  perhaps  Rose- Ann  did  like  to  be  looked  at  and  enjoyed 
by  some  one  who  was  not  a  child.  She  seemed  to  be  teasing 
him  with  her  presence — to  be  saying,  "Don't  you  want  to 
come  and  play  with  me,  too?" 

He  had  tried  to  tell  Give  about  Rose-Ann,  but  his  first 
words,  "a  girl  over  at  Community  House,"  had  apparently 
evoked  in  Give's  mind  the  picture  of  a  misguided  spinster  of 


44  The  Briary-Bush 

forty  whose  repressed  maternal  instincts  were  finding  satis 
faction  in  the  running  of  other  people's  lives — a  creature 
against  whom  he  proceeded  to  warn  Felix  in  humorous  terms. 
"She  will  manage  you,  Felix,"  he  said,  " — for  your  own  good. 
Now  it's  all  right  to  be  managed  by  a  woman,  so  long  as  it  is 
for  her  benefit.  You  can  at  least  complain  about  it.  But 
when  you're  managed  for  your  own  good,  you  are  helpless." 

Felix  objected  to  this  notion  of  Rose-Akin,  but  Clive  asked 
her  age.  And  Felix  said  he  didn't  know,  but  that  she  was  a 
little  older  than  himself. 

"A  little  older  than  you.  I  thought  so,"  said  Clive.  "Be 
ware  !"  There  was  no  use  talking  to  Clive  about  girls,  any 
way;  it  was  a  subject  upon  which  he  was  frequently  bitter 
and  always  absurd.  Felix  had  told  Rose-Ann  a  little  about 
him,  and  she  had  said,  "He's  been  hurt  by  some  girl." 
Doubtless  that  was  true.  And  Felix  felt  a  certain  satisfac 
tion  in  the  inward  comparison  of  this  creature  of  Clive's  dis 
torted  fancy  with  the  real  and  delightful  Rose- Ann — whom 
even  as  Clive  talked  he  could  see  in  memory,  with  himself 
standing  by  and  caressing  with  his  gaze  every  swift  move 
ment  of  that  delicate  and  supple  doll-body  of  hers. 

"You're  all  wrong,"  he  said  to  Clive.     "She's  a  pagan." 

"Yes,"  said  Clive  scornfully,  "one  of  those  settlement- 
house  pagans." 

Felix  only  laughed. 

All  this,  however,  was  not  getting  a  job.  By  desperate 
economies,  as  his  money  dwindled,  he  was  managing  to  hold 
out.  But  he  could  not  hold  out  forever.  Clive  had  asked 
him  one  day  if  he  needed  money,  and  he  had  answered  eva 
sively.  There  was  no  use  starting  that  sort  of  thing. 

He  had  to  get  a  job. 

But  it  looked  as  though  he  were  not  going  to  get  a  job. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  use  trying  to  impress  city  editors  with 
his  efficiency.  There  had  been  a  vacancy  on  a  morning  paper, 
and  another  young  man — with,  so  far  as  Felix  could  tell,  no 
better  qualifications  than  his  own — had  been  selected.  That 
discouraged  him.  Doubtless  these  city  editors  could  see 
through  his  pretences.  .  .  . 


The  Struggle  for  Existence  45 

4 

And  then  one  afternoon  when  he  dropped  in  at  the  Chron 
icle  office,  Clive  asked  him  if  he  was  ready  to  go  to  work 
Monday  morning :  he  had  been  taken  on  as  a  reporter.  .  .  . 
He  would  get,  Clive  told  him,  twenty  dollars  a  week  to  start 
with.  Clive  told  him  this  in  a  pleased  but  casual  way,  as 
though  it  were  something  long  arranged  between  Felix  and 
himself  which  had  just  been  ratified  by  the  higher  powers. 
So  Clive  had  been  working  for  him  all  along! 

"Go  and  tell  Harris  you'll  be  on  deck,"  said  Clive.  Harris 
was  the  city  editor.  "And  better  speak  to  the  Old  Man,  too." 
The  Old  Man  was  the  managing  editor,  Mr.  Devoe.  Felix 
had  never  supposed  for  a  moment  that  these  personages  had 
him  under  consideration. 

He  presented  himself  before  both  of  them,  not  knowing 
what  to  say.  Apparently  it  was  not  necessary  to  say  any 
thing.  Both  of  them  were  busy— too  busy,  Felix  hoped,  for 
them  to  notice  how  dazed  he  was. 

"All  right,  Fay,  you'll  be  here  Monday  morning  at  eight 
o'clock,"  said  the  city  editor. 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Bangs  told  you  that  we're  going  to  start 
you  off  at  twenty  dollars?"  said  Mr.  Devoe.  "We  can  do  a 
little  better  later,  perhaps.  It's  up  to  you."  Mr.  Devoe 
looked  at  him  severely— or  kindly,  Felix  was  not  sure  which 

over  his  glasses,  and  turned  back  to  his  desk. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Felix. 

Willie  Smith  patted  him  on  the  back.  "Glad  you've  got 
it,"  he  said. 

"Take  it  easy,"  Clive  told  him.  "A  newspaper  job  in 
Chicago  is  just  like  a  newspaper  job  anywhere  else." 

Well!  So  at  last,  somehow,  the  devil  only  knew  how, 
he  had  gained  a  foothold  in  Chicago. 

He  discussed  the  event  with  Rose-Ann  that  evening.  She 
laughed  at  his  surprise.  "How  do  you  suppose  people  get 
jobs?"  she  demanded.  "You  were  going  at  it  in  precisely 
the  right  way.  I  knew  from  what  you  told  me  they  were 
going  to  take  you." 


46  The  Briary-Bush 

Felix  had  already  begun  to  worry  about  the  future.  "I 
don't  know  where  any  place  is,"  he  said.  "I  must  dig  up  my 
street-map." 

"Oh,  throw  that  street-map  away,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "I'll 
give  you  a  guide  to  Chicago  that's  much  more  useful."  She 
went  to  her  shelf  and  took  down  a  little  book.  "Here!" 

It  was  the  "Bab  Ballads."     Felix  looked  puzzled. 

"If  you  can  write  a  play  that  will  please  children,  you  can 
write  to  please  the  people  of  Chicago.  They're  children,  too," 
she  said. 

Felix  slipped  the  book  in  his  pocket  and  went  to  his  room 
and  his  street-map.  She  had  too  much  confidence  in  him. 
Only  he  himself  knew  what  a  fool  he  was.  He  had  got  this 
job  under  false  pretences. 


VI.  A  Guide  to  Chicago 


AND  yet  it  seemed  that  Rose-Ann  knew  him  better  than 
he  knew  himself. 
On  Monday  morning  the  city  editor  gruffly  as 
signed  him  a  desk.     He  hated  to  sit  there  idle,  and  he  had 
thrown  away  his  morning  paper.     Finding  that  he  still  had 
Rose-Ann's  little  book  in  his  pocket,  he  took  it  out  and  rea< 
in  that.     Presently  the  city  editor  called  his  name.     He  rose, 
putting  the  book  back  into  his  pocket.     His  first  test  had 

come. 

"Go  over  to  the  Annex  and  see  if  you  can  get  something 
about  the  Taft-Roosevelt  situation  from—"  and  he  named  a 
distinguished  political  personage. 

"Where?"  Felix  asked. 

"At  the  Annex." 

(  But  what  in  the  world  was  the  Annex  ?  From  the  tone  in 
which  its  name  had  been  uttered  by  the  city  editor,  Felix  was 
aware  that  it  was  some  place  that  he  ought  to  know  all  about. 
Some  place  that  anybody  who  had  ever  dreamed  of  being  a 
reporter  on  a  Chicago  paper  would  of  course  know  all  about ! 
But  what  was  it?  The  Annex  to  what?  ...  By  a  violent 
mental  effort  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  must  be  a  hotel ; 
probably  one  of  Chicago's  most  famous  hotels !  and  here  he 
had  been  in  -Chicago  a  month,  and  didn't  know  where  it  was. 
Idiot!) 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Felix  to  the  city  editor,  and  went  out  anc 
asked  the  policeman  on  the  nearest  corner.  ...     It  was  hor 
ribly  obvious  to  him,  at  that  moment,  that  he  was  too  ignorant 
of  plain  everyday  reality  ever  to  hold  this  job. 

47 


48  The  Briary-Bush 


He  came  back,  having  failed  to  get  the  interview.  .  .  .  He 
had  been  given  half  an  hour  by  a  delightful  old  gentleman  at 
the  Annex ;  half  an  hour  in  which  to  try  to  get  some  kind  of 
quotable  political  comment  on  a  situation  in  which  everybody 
was  interested,  from  a  man  who,  if  any  one,  knew  what  the 
situation  really  was.  And  every  question  had  been  turned 
aside  so  cleverly,  so  smoothly,  so  genially,  that  under  other 
circumstances  it  would  have  been  a  pleasure  to  see  it  done. 
The  old  gentleman  had  been  the  soul  of  courtesy ;  he  seemed 
to  enjoy  talking  to  his  young  questioner;  doubtless  because 
it  was  so  easy  to  put  him  off  the  track. 

At  first  Felix's  questions  had  been  straightforward ;  and  the 
evasiveness  of  the  replies  had  disconcerted  him.  He  framed 
his  questions  more  shrewdly ;  but  the  old  gentleman  answered 
them  with  the  same  bland  courtesy  and  to  precisely  the  same 
effect.  Felix  kept  on  for  a  while,  doggedly.  And  then 
gradually  he  realized — what,  he  told  himself  scornfully, 
he  should  have  known  from  the  very  start,  that  he  had 
been  sent  out  on  a  futile  quest.  If  there  had  been  the  slight 
est  chance  of  getting  anything  out  of  this  old  gentleman,  the 
best  reporter  on  the  staff  would  have  been  sent — not  the 
newest  and  greenest  cub. 

He  was  angry — at  himself,  for  having  tried  so  naively  to 
do  the  impossible ;  at  the  city  editor,  for  not  giving  him  a  real 
assignment;  at  the  tradition  of  "news,"  which,  having 
attached  a  fictitious  importance  to  the  subject  of  politics,  was 
wasting  his  time  and  the  old  gentleman's  in  this  solemnly 
idiotic  fashion. 

"Is  there  anything  else  I  could  tell  you  about?"  the  old 
gentleman  asked  blandly. 

"You  have  been  very  kind — "  said  Felix. 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "Nothing  pleases 
me  more  than  to  give  information  to  a  young  seeker  after 
truth." 

"There  is  one  thing  I  would  like  to  know,"  said  Felix. 
"Who  struck  Billy  Patterson?" 


A  Guide  to  Chicago  49 

This  insulting  question— insulting  precisely  because  it  was 
silly,  because  it  threw  the  whole  earnest  interview  suddenly 
into  the  key  of  farce — did  not  for  an  instant  shake  the  old 
gentleman's  aplomb.  He  appeared  to  reflect  gravely,  with 
finger-tips  delicately  joined  and  head  cocked  on  one  side,  in 
his  characteristic  gesture.  He  smiled  faintly,  and  spoke. 

"You  have  trenched,"  he  said,  "upon  an  important  public 
issue,  and  one  not  lightly  to  be  discussed — a  question  of  deep 
interest  to  hundreds  of  thousands  of  our  fellow-countrymen. 
In  fact,  I  have  seldom  been  in  any  gathering  of  true 
Americans,  when  this  question  has  not  been  raised.  Who 
struck  Billy  Patterson?  Again  and  again  have  I  heard  men 
ask  each  other  that  question.  And  how  seldom,  if  ever,  has 
the  reply  been  satisfactory !  No,  I  say  frankly  to  you,  the 
reply  has  not  been  satisfactory.  And  so  the  question  remains 
— like  Banquo's  ghost,  it  will  not  down.  Careless  and  un 
thinking  statesmen  may  try  to  lead  the  people  astray  with  talk 
of  minor  issues,  such  as  the  tariff,  imperialism,  and  the  con 
servation  of  natural  resources,  but  the  heart  of  the  American 
people  remains  true.  When  the  shouting  and  the  tumult  dies, 
and  the  senators  go  back  to  Washington,  common  men  look 
at  each  other  and  ask,  Who  struck  Billy  Patterson?  It  is  a 
question  that  searches  to  the  very  vitals  of  our  polity.  We 
boast  of  our  unexampled  freedom,  our  magnificent  oppor 
tunities ;  and  rightly  so.  But  justice,  even-handed  and  sure, 
is  the  true  foundation  of  a  lasting  prosperity.  We  know  this, 
and  we  are  humble  before  the  Muse  of  History.  Be  it  said  in 
our  behalf  that  others  have  not  had  to  prod  at  our  sleeping 
consciences.  It  is  not  because  of  outside  criticism  that  we 
trouble  ourselves  over  this  matter.  The  Frenchman  and  the 
Turk  do  not  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  us ;  and  even  our 
brothers  across  the  sea,  speaking  our  own  language,  are 
probably  ignorant  of  William  Patterson's  very  name.  But 
we  do  not  forget.  And  whatever  happens,  so  long  as,  this 
question  remains  unanswered,  I  venture  to  predict  that  no 
other  issue  will  usurp  its  place ;  and  on  the  heart  of  the  last 
American  will  be  written  the  solemn  words :  Who  struck  Billy 
Patterson?  Is  there  anything  else?" 


50  The  Briary-Bush 

So  the  old  gentleman  could  play  that  game,  too! 

"Well,"  said  Felix,  "I  was  going  to  ask  you  if — if  you 
thought  McPhairson  Conglocketty  Angus  McClan  got  a 
square  deal,  but — " 

The  old  gentleman  shook  his  head,  still  smiling. 

"I  really  don't  think  it  would  be  proper,"  he  said,  "for  me 
to  discuss  the  internal  affairs  of  the  British  Empire." 

"And  Noah's  Ark,"  said  Felix.  "If  you  could  express 
an  opinion — " 

"It  might  be  construed  as  a  reflection  upon  the  naval  policy 
of  the  new  adminstration." 

"And  as  to  what  became  of  little  Charley  Ross  ?" 

"That,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "is  something  the  national 
committee  would  prefer  to  remain,  for  the  present,  a  secret." 

Felix  was  beaten. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  went  away. 

"Got  anything?"  the  city  editor  asked,  when  Felix  came 
up  to  his  desk  to  report. 

"Not  a  thing,"  Felix  said. 

The  city  editor  grunted,  reached  out  for  a  typewritten 
sheet  on  the  hook,  and  seemed  to  dismiss  the  matter  from 
his  mind. 

Felix  went  back  to  his  desk  and  sat  there  idly.  He  took 
out  Rose-Ann's  little  book  from  his  pocket,  and  read  in  it. 
And  then  suddenly  he  put  a  sheet  of  paper  in  his  machine  and 
commenced  to  write. 

Confound  it,  if  what  Rose-Ann  said  about  the  people  of 
Chicago  was  so,  they  would  enjoy  the  true  story  of  that 
interview.  It  was  funny.  Funny  just  because  it  was 
silly.  But  it  was  so  preposterously  the  opposite  of  what 
he  had  been  sent  to  find  out  — it  seemed  a  deliberate  mockery 
of  the  traditional  and  legitimate  curiosity  of  the  public.  If 
he  ventured  to  show  it  to  the  city  editor,  it  would  probably 
be  his  last  assignment. 

Recklessly,  he  wrote  it. 

The  city  editor  strolled  to  the  water-tank,  and  back,  wiping 
his  lips.  He  saw  Felix  writing,  came  over,  put  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  and  asked,  "What  are  you  writing?" 


A  Guide  to  Chicago  51 

Well,  he  was  lost.  There  was  no  backing  out  now.  He 
handed  over  the  first  sheets. 

"Thought  you  didn't  get  anything,"  the  city  editor  re 
marked. 

"I— didn't/'  said  Felix. 

" Where's  the  rest  of  it  ?" 

Felix  wrote  the  last  sentence,  and  surrendered  the  page. 

"He  said  this?"  asked  the  city  editor,  pausing  for  a  moment. 
Felix  nodded.  "Just  like  the  old  bird,  too,"  the  city  editor 
muttered,  and  went  on  reading.  He  read  to  the  end,  and  then 
read  the  first  page  again,  and  then  smiled  amiably.  "And  you 
didn't  know  you  had  a  story !"  he  said. 

"Well,"  said  Felix,  still  incredulous.     '1  didn't  think- 

" You're  sure  you've  got  it  right?"  the  city  editor  asked, 
rubbing  his  chin. 

"Every  word,"  said  Felix,  earnest  in  behalf  of  his  veracity. 

"H'm,"  said  the  city  editor.  "With  a  little  fixing  up,  I 
think  we've  got  a  nice  little  story  here."  He  carried  it  into 
the  managing  editor's  room. 

And  to  Felix's  great  astonishment  the  story,  with  a  few 
changes,  was  printed  on  the  first  page,  under  a  solemnly  ironic 
heading.  .  .  .  They  were  laughing  about  it  in  the  editorial 
room  when  he  ventured  in  that  afternoon  to  see  Clive.  "So 
you  had  a  story  and  didn't  know  it!"  Willie  said  delightedly. 

"Never  mind,"  Clive  told  him,  "you've  made  a  hit  with 
Harris  by  letting  him  discover  the  story  for  himself."  Clive 
really  seemed  to  think  he  had  played  a  kind  of  trick  on  Harris. 
"The  regular  cub  trick,"  said  Clive. 

Felix  showed  the  story  to  Rose-Ann  that  night. 

She  was  pleased,  but  not  surprised.  "It's  exactly  the  sort; 
of  thing  I  expected  you  to  do,"  she  said. 

He  was  tempted  to  tell  Rose- Ann  the  truth  about  it ;  but 
he  decided  not  to.  Let  her  keep  on  believing  in  him — while 
she  could ! 


VII.  Work  and  Play 


FELIX  kept  the  little  book  in  his  desk,  cultivated  what 
he  called  the  "Bab  Ballad  manner,"  and  waited,  scepti 
cally,  to  see  how  long  his  luck  would  last.     In  three 
weeks  he  was  given  a  raise.     But  even  this  did  not  quite 
convince  him. 

It  had  been  too  easy — too  astonishingly  easy.  It  had  come 
about,  not  because  of  any  change  in  his  character,  not  because 
he  had  ceased  in  some  miraculous  way  to  be  a  moon-calf,  but 
precisely  because  he  was  just  as  much  a  moon-calf  as  ever. 
That  was  why  he  was  compelled  to  suspect  the  authenticity 
of  his  good  fortune. 

"Stop  worrying,"  Clive  told  him  one  day  at  lunch.  "What 
in  the  world  are  you  afraid  of  ?" 

"That  I'll  wake  up,"  said  Felix. 

"You'll  wake  up,  all  right,"  said  Clive,  "to  discover  that 
you're  being  underpaid  and  overworked  just  like  everybody 
else.  You  know,  you  go  along  looking  as  if  you  had  had  a 
telegram  saying  that  your  rich  uncle  in  Australia  had  died  and 
left  you  a  million  dollars,  and  you  didn't  know  whether  to 
believe  it  or  not.  No  one  would  guess  to  look  at  you  that 
this  remarkable  good  fortune  of  yours  simply  consists  of 
eight  or  ten  stiff  hours  a  day  for  twenty-five  dollars  a  week." 

This,  to  Felix,  seemed  an  understatement  of  the  merits  of 
the  situation.  For  one  thing,  he  had  become  very  much 
attached  to  Clive,  whose  odd,  whimsical,  theoretical  conver 
sation  had  a  tang  of  its  own ;  and  this  job  on  the  Chronicle 
yielded  him  the  opportunity  to  enjoy  Clive's  company,  though 
now  on  somewhat  restricted  terms. 

Since  Felix  had  become  a  reporter,  taking  his  place  as  it 
were  in  the  ranks  of  a  lower  caste,  he  had  begun  to  feel  that 

52 


Work  and  Play  53 

his  visits  to  the  editorial  room  were  a  kind  of  special  privilege, 
which  he  endeavored  to  justify  by  an  occasional  piece  of 
writing  suited  to  the  editorial  page— some  entertaining 
account  of  things  seen  in  Chicago,  the  by-products  of  his 
work  as  a  reporter.  Or,  more  likely,  things  not  seen  at'  all, 
but  pieced  together  out  of  his  memory  and  hung  on  the 
slightest  thread  of  contemporary  incident.  .  .  .  Once  he 
attended  a  meeting  of  "aurists,"  and,  with  a  reference  to  that 
meeting  as  a  starting  point,  meandered  through  a  column  of 
odd  and  curious  lore  about  ears:  the  ear  as  the  organ  of 
stability,  by  means  of  which  we  are  enabled  to  stand  upright 

with  the  story  of  the  little  crustacean  which  puts  sand  in 

its  ears,  and  upon  whom  some  scientist  played  a  mean  trick, 
substituting  iron  filings  for  the  sand-grains,  and  then  applying 
a  magnet  overhead,  with  the  result  that  the  crustacean  swam 
contentedly  upside  down!  ...  In  short,  anything  that 
happened  to  interest  him ! 

He  discovered  that  these  writings  gave  him  a  special  stand 
ing  among  his  fellow-reporters.  They  had  never  ventured  to 
aspire  to  the  editorial  page.  Nor  would  Felix  have  ventured, 
except  that  he  knew  from  loafing  about  the  editorial  room  how 
welcome  was  an  occasional  column  from  the  outside.  He 
still  felt  himself  to  be  an  intruder  into  a  superior  realm,  and 
he  was  grateful  for  those  times,  once  or  twice  a  week,  when 
Clive  stopped  beside  his  desk  and  suggested  that  they  lunch 
together. 

He  had  wondered  at  first  how  it  was  that  Clive  Bangs,  with 
a  passion  for  ideas  as  intense  as  the  one  Felix  had  long  been 
endeavoring  to  overcome  within  himself,  should  be  a  success 
ful  editorial  writer  on  Chicago's  most  conservative  and  re 
spectable  paper — and,  for  that  matter,  the  valued  committee- 
man  of  two  or  three  eminently  practical  and  sober  reform 
organizations !  Clive  was  not  merely  a  moon-calf  like  him 
self  ;  he  was  at  the  same  time  a  quite  sane  and  work-a-day 
young  Chicagoan. 

The  thought  of  such  an  adjustment  to  the  world  fascinated 
and  tantalized  Felix.  It  held  out  for  him  the  possibility  of 
getting  along  successfully  without  going  through  any  such 


54  The  Briary-Bush 

violent  psychic  revolution  as  he  had  demanded  of  himself, 
Clive  was  inwardly  an  Anarchist,  a  Utopian,  a  theorist  and 
dreamer  of  the  wildest  sort;  and  outwardly  something  quite 
other. 

That  outward  quality  was  what  Felix  envied  in  Clive — that 
practical  adaptability  to  the  world,  so  far  beyond  anything 
that  seemed  possible  for  Felix  himself  to  achieve.  He  would 
have  given  much  for  Clive's  ease  of  manner,  his  ability  to 
meet  ordinary  people  on  their  own  ground — as  for  instance  in 
discussing  the  Yale-Harvard  game  with  a  college  boy  and  an 
instant  later  local  politics  with  a  "reform"  alderman  who 
stopped  in  turn  by  their  table  in  the  City  Club.  At  such  a 
moment  Felix  was  struck  dumb;  he  felt  like  a  child  in  the 
presence  of  grown-up  people.  Clive  seemed  to  him  an  in 
finitely  superior  being. 

And  yet  this  practical  adaptability  to  human  occasions  was 
a  trait  upon  which  Clive  himself  seemed  to  set  no  value.  His 
easy  worldliness — as  Felix  thought  it — was  only  one  side  of 
his  character ;  and  he  preferred  to  indulge  the  other  side — the 
side  that  was  fantastically  idealistic. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  Felix  had  felt  obliged  to  carry  all 
his  theories  into  practice,  that  some  bounds  had  been  set  to  his 
theorizing.  No  such  bounds  existed  for  Clive  Bangs.  The 
most  extreme  ideas  that  Felix  had  ever  timidly  cherished 
with  regard  to  some  free  and  happy  society  of  the  future, 
were  commonplaces  to  Clive.  His  speculations  roved  boldly 
into  Platonic,  Nietzschean,  and  H.  G.  Wellsian  spheres,  and 
dwelt  there  as  among  solid  realities. 

They  talked  chiefly  of  love — of  love  in  the  future. 

Sometimes  Felix,  too  much  allured  and  disturbed,  had  to 
protest  that  these  were,  after  all,  only  dreams.  One  day  at 
lunch  Clive  discoursed  on  freedom  in  love  until  Felix  felt 
constrained  to  point  out  that  human  nature  being  what  it 
is,  jealousy — whether  one  liked  it  or  not — was  nevertheless 
a  fact. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Clive  laughed.  "I  realize  that  the  red-haired 
young  woman  at  the  settlement  would  find  it  difficult  not 
to  be  jealous!  In  that  sense,  of  course  jealousy  is  a  fact, 


Work  and  Play  55 

and  has  to  be  taken  into  consideration.  But  we  are  free 
men  at  present,  dealing  with  ideas,  not  with  Jane  and  Sue 
— and  as  free  men  we  are  at  liberty  to  inquire  what  kind 
of  fact  jealousy  is.  Witchcraft,  too,  was  a  fact — soberly 
attested  by  the  greatest  thinkers  of  the  age.  Anybody 
who  didn't  believe  in  witchcraft  was  crazy,  just  like  you 
and  I.  And  jealousy  is  the  same  kind  of  fact — a  socially- 
created  fact.  People  are  persuaded  that  it  exists — that 
under  certain  circumstances  it  must  exist.  That's  all. 
How  would  I  know  when  to  be  jealous,  except  that  I  am 
carefully  taught  what  my  rights  of  possession  are  and  when 
they  are  infringed?  It's  the  old  barbaric  code,  still  handed 
down  in  talk  and  writing.  And  that's  why  I  am  interested 
in  the  development  of  a  new  kind  of  talk  and  writing." 

It  was  specifically  as  this  "new  kind  of  talk  and  writing" 
that  Clive  discussed  modern  literature.  He  repudiated  any 
preoccupation  with  literature  as  an  art.  It  was  to  him  a  kind 
of  social  dynamics.  It  had  been  used  to  build  up  through  the 
ages  a  vast  system  of  "taboos" — and  now  it  was  being  used 
to  break  them  down  again.  In  this  work  of  sociol  iconoclasm 
the  chiefs  were  H.  G.  Wells,  Shaw  and  Galsworthy — with 
Meredith  as  a  breathless  and  stammering  forerunner  and 
Hardy  as  a  blind  prophet.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  suppose  the  public  knows  what  they  are  really  up 
to?"  Felix  asked  doubtfully. 

"No.  And  it  would  hang  them  if  it  did.  But  fiction 
cuts  deeper  than  any  kind  of  argument.  And  it's  doing  its 
work.  Wait  ten  years.  .  .  .  The  new  younger  genera 
tion  won't  be  like  us,  Felix — content  to  orate  about  these 
matters  at  luncheon.  They  will  despise  us,  Felix!  They 
will  say  we  did  nothing  but  talk." 

."Quite  right,  too,"  said  Felix. 

"They  will  have  heard  our  talk — talk — talk,  and  they  will 
be  sick  of  it.  They  will  be  all  for  action.  And  you  and  I, 
Felix,  who  will  then  be  respectably  married,  you  to  your  set 
tlement  Egeria  and  I  to  God  knows  whom,  will  be  shocked  at 
the  younger  generation.  We  will  remember  how  prayer 
fully  we  planned  to  be  unconventional,  in  what  a  mood  of 


5.6  The  Briary-Bush 

far-seeing  social  righteousness  we  went  about  breaking  the 
commandments,  and  how,  after  all,  we  stopped  on  the  way 
to  discuss  the  matter  more  thoroughly,  and  ended  by  never 
doing  anything  at  all — and  we  will  be  disgusted  by  the  light- 
minded  frivolity  of  those  youngsters.  Even  our  novels — in 
stead  of  corrupting  the  youth  of  the  land  as  we  hope ! — will 
probably  be  regarded  by  them  as  hopelessly  old-fashioned. 
If  we  ever  actually  write  them.  .  .  ." 

When  he  had  reached  that  point  in  the  discussion,  Clive 
would  become  silent  and  sullen.  "If  I  only  had  the  energy 
to  write !"  he  would  complain  bitterly. 

He  had  been  brooding  over  a  novel  for  four  years,  and  had 
not  yet  written  a  word  of  it.  ...  They  had  long  talks  about 
that  unwritten  novel  which  was  to  corrupt  the  younger 
generation. 


At  Community  House,  Felix  was  having  difficulties  with 
his  class.  Not  that  they  were  lacking  in  enthusiasm ;  on  the 
contrary,  their  enthusiasm  carried  him  in  directions  where  he 
had  no  intention  of  going.  At  the  outset,  he  had  conceived 
English  composition  to  be  a  simple  matter.  Perhaps  it 
might  have  been  for  children;  but  these  young  people  of 
eighteen  were  already  convinced  of  its  difficulties,  and  hag 
gled  over  semicolons.  They  wanted  to  know  the  "rules"  by 
the  observance  of  which  one  became  a  good  writer ! 

Felix  presently  gave  up  prose  as  too  hard  to  teach,  and 
started  in  upon  verse,  with  greater  success.  Yet  when  it 
came  to  explaining  why  love  and  rove  are  technically  cor 
rect  rhymes,  and  young  and  son  no  rhymes  at  all,  he  was 
nonplussed.  Very  soon  the  class  had  hit  upon  a  mode 
which  was  neither  verse  nor  prose — a  kind  of  free  verse 
It  was  quite  other  than  Felix  had  any  wish  to  encourage 
anybody  to  write.  He  doubted  if  the  writing  of  free  verse 
would  ever  enable  them  to  appreciate  the  Ode  to  a  Night 
ingale.  But  he  was  helpless  in  the  situation,  and  could  only 
let  them  go  ahead. 

His  conception  of  verse  was  precisely  that  it  was  not  free ; 


Work  and  Play  57 

he  had  thought  that  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  rhyme  and 
metre  would  give  them  a  creative  understanding  of  English 
poetry.  This  free  verse  of  theirs  seemed  to  him  utterly  un 
related  to  the  tradition  into  which  he  sought  to  give  them  an 
insight.  It  was  very  free  verse  indeed — it  mixed  its  meta 
phors  recklessly,  it  soared  into  realms  of  vague  emotion. 
And  when  its  meaning  was  at  all  clear,  it  carried  the  burden 
of  a  hopeless  reproach  against  circumstance,  and  a  plaintive 
yearning  for  it  knew  not  what.  Felix  fiercely  disliked 
this  plaintive  hopelessness,  and  preached  scornfully  at  his 
class.  They  seemed  to  be  impressed;  but  they  continued 
as  before. 

"I  can't  believe  you  really  feel  like  that,"  he  said  to  a 
merry-faced  young  Jewess  who  had  just  read  aloud  a 
poem  full  of  world-sorrow. 

She  looked  offended.  "But  I  do!"  she  cried.  "If  you 
only  knew !"  and  she  put  her  hand  expressively  to  her 
bosom. 

"My  God!"  he  said.     "What  a  broken-hearted  crowd!" 

There  was  a  quick  burst  of  laughter,  and  then  a  girl 
spoke  up.  "vBut  Mr.  Fay,  do  you  not  think  we  feel?" 

"I  know  you  feel  unhappy.  But  don't  you  ever  feel 
anything  else  ?  Don't  you  ever  have  a  good  time  ?  Or 
don't  you  think  good  times  are  worth  writing  about?" 

"Did  Keats  and  Shelley  write  about  their  good  times?" 
asked  an  ironical  youth. 

"Yes,"  said  Felix  defiantly.  "They  wrote  about  lucent 
syrops  tinct  with  cinnamon,  and  skylarks,  and  things  like 
that;  and  they  loved  them  to  begin  with — that  was  why 
they  wrote  about  them.  Don't  you  love  anything — any 
thing  that  is  right  on  hand  to  be  loved — babies,  or  pet 
kittens,  or  pretty  clothes,  or  pretty  girls?  Are  you  always 
pining  for  something  you  haven't  got?" 

"Always!"  two  or  three  of  them  responded  impressively 
in  chorus. 

"The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star"  the  ironical  young 
man  contributed. 

"See  here,"  said  Felix.     "Shelley  was  a  young  aristocrat 


58  The  Briary-Bush 

with  an  income,  living  luxuriously  in  Italy,  and  he  could 
afford  to  be  unhappy."  They  laughed,  but  Felix  went  on 
earnestly.  "He  could  afford  to  be  devoted  to  something 
afar  from  the  sphere  of  his  sorrow,  because  his  sorrow  con 
sisted  of  the  fact  that  after  eloping  with  two  girls,  he 
couldn't  elope  with  a  third  and  have  a  perfectly  clear  con 
science.  Added  to  the  fact  that  he  knew,  if  he  did,  he 
would  be  tired  of  her  in  a  few  weeks  anyway.  He  had 
tried  it  before,  and  he  knew.  That  was  what  Shelley's 
sorrow  was  all  about,  and  if  any  one  here  present  is  in  the 
same  situation,  I  grant  that  he  is  entitled  to  feel  that  the 
desire  for  happiness  is  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 
But  for  ordinary  mortals  like  ourselves,  happiness  is  no 
such  impossible  thing.  It  is  not  the  desire  of  the  moth  for 
the  star,  but — "  he  hesitated,  and  the  ironical  youth  broke 
in  with : 

"The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  candle-flame!" 

"And  suppose  that  it  is!"  said  Felix.  "What  is  life 
anyway,  except  a  burning  of  ourselves  up  in  action?  Only 
I  don't  see  why  you  prefer  such  tragic  figures  of  speech. 
Why  not—" 

The  ironical  youth  interrupted  again:  "The  desire  of 
the  caterpillar  for  the  cabbage-leaf !" 

"I  give  you  up!"  said  Felix. 

But  he  learned  from  Rose-Ann  that  his  class  was  con 
sidered  by  the  residents  a  real  success.  And  fat  old  Mrs. 
Perk,  one  evening  at  the  tiny  theatre,  said  to  him :  "I  hear 
you're  making  poets  out  of  the  boys  and  girls.  They  say 
you're  a  grand  teacher !" 

It  was  very  odd:  it  seemed  to  make  no  difference  that 
they  could  not  take  what  he  wanted  to  give  them,  or  that 
he  did  not  want  to  give  them  what  they  were  getting;  the 
class  was  a  success  anyway ! 

"Who  was  telling  you?"  he  asked. 

"That  David  Arenstein,"  she  told  him.  "The  one  that 
always  used  to  be  talking  about  committing  suicide."  David 
was  the  ironical  youth  who  had  quoted  Shelley  at  him. 
"But  he's  far  from  committing  suicide  now — "  and  she 


Work  and  Play  59 

smiled  her  comfortable  smile.  "He's  going  to  be  married. 
Oh,  yes,  he  comes  and  tells  me  all  his  troubles/' 

Felix  laughed.     "I  hope  he  doesn't  hold  me  to  blame!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Well,  you'll  be  getting  married 
yourself,  pretty  soon,  I  suppose?" 

He  did  not  venture  to  challenge  her  as  to  whom.  But 
he  said,  "What  in  the  world  makes  you  think  that  ?" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "young  folks  do,  sooner  or  later,  I've 
noticed." 

3 

It  was  nonsense,  of  course.  He  was  in  no  position 
to  think  about  such  things,  at  all.  And  as  for  Rose-Ann, 
he  had  in  the  course  of  weeks  become  as  it  were  acclimated 
to  her  loveliness,  so  that  it  no  longer  tormented  him  as  at 
first.  He  was  secretly  proud  of  his  imperturbability.  And 
if  Rose-Ann's  companionship  had  lately  grown  more  dis 
turbing  than  ever,  it  was  for  a  very  different  reason.  It 
was  because  of  her  flattering  and  at  the  same  time  annoying 
expectations  of  him  as  an  artist — a  poet — a  creator.  He 
attempted  to  deny  any  pretensions  of  this  sort;  he  tried  to 
evade  any  discussion  of  art  at  all.  But  they  had  formed 
the  habit  of  going  to  the  theater  together,  and  he  found  it 
impossible  to  resist  talking  with  her  about  how  plays  should 
be  written. 

"Why  don't  you  write  a  really-and-truly  play?"  she 
asked,  one  night  on  their  way  back  to  the  Community 
House. 

He  attempted  to  turn  the  question  aside.  "Hawkins  is 
writing  one,  according  to  office  gossip,"  he  said.  Hawkins 
was  the  young  dramatic  critic  of  the  Chronicle. 

"Well,  if  Hawkins  can  write  a  play — !"  she  said. 

"All  right,"  he  assented  cheerfully,  "I'll  wait  and  see  if 
Hawkins  can!" 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  said.  "You  know  what  I  think, 
Felix?" 

"I  never  have  any  idea  what  you're  going  to  think.  What 
is  it  this  time?" 


60  The  Briary-Bush 

"I  think  you've  had  your  feelings  hurt,  somehow,  back 
where  you  came  from.  In  regard  to  writing.  Something 
has  made  you  afraid  to  show  what  you  can  do." 

There  was  something  quaintly  maternal  in  her  manner 
which  almost  took  the  sting  out  of  that  word  afraid.  But 
Felix  hardened.  "Well,  why  don't  you  write  a  play?"  he 
countered. 

"Don't  be  brutal,  Flelix.  You  know — and  I  know — 
that  I'm  not  up  to  it.  I  can  do  little  things.  I  can't  do 
a  big  thing.  And  you  can." 

"It's  nice  of  you  to  be  so  sure,  Rose-Ann.  But  I'm  not. 
Or  rather,  I'm  pretty  sure  I  can't.  So  there." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?     It's  not  true,  and  you  know  it." 

He  wished  Rose-Ann  had  not  become  so  serious.  They 
were  walking  home  through  one  of  the  first  winter  snows. 
A  little  while  ago  she  had  thrown  a  fluffy  snowball  at  him, 
and  threatened  to  wash  his  face,  reproaching  him  for  not 
being  enough  of  a  child.  This  was  even  more  embar 
rassing.  He  had  an  absurd  fear  that  she  would  commence 
to  talk  to  him  about  his  soul.  .  .  .  This  was  coming  danger 
ously  near  to  it.  He  scuffed  up  the  soft  snow  with  his  feet, 
while  she  looked  sidewise  at  him  waiting  for  a  reply. 

"Rose-Ann,  you  make  me  uncomfortable,"  he  said  at 
last.  "This  business  of  having  some  one  'believe'  in  you 
isn't  what  it's  cracked  up  to  be  in  the  romances.  It — 
it's  a  damned  nuisance.  I'd  be  perfectly  happy  if  you 
didn't  come  to  me  with  your  preposterous  demands.  I'm 
not  the  young  genius  in  "The  Divine  Fire.'  I'm  a 
reporter  on  a  Chicago  newspaper.  Of  course  I  want  to 
write  a  play.  Every  young  reporter  wants  to,  I  suppose. 
And  of  course,  since  you  insist  upon  it,  I  think  I  could. 
But  what  of  that?  Every  young  reporter  thinks  the  same 
thing." 

"Why  this  pretence  of  modesty,  Felix?  You're  scared, 
that's  all." 

"Scared  of  what?"  he  demanded  angrily. 

She  answered  slowly,  as  though  she  had  just  discovered 
the  reason.  "Of  letting  people  know  your  real  ambitions." 


Work  and  Play  61 

"Of  making  a  silly  fool  of  myself,"  he  muttered. 

"But  where's  the  harm?"  she  continued.  "Suppose  they 
did  know?  Suppose  everybody  knew  all  your  secret 
dreams?  Would  that  be  so  terrible?  Do  you  think  every 
body  is  watching  you,  ready  to  laugh  at  you?  You're 
afraid  of  being  laughed  at,  that's  the  trouble.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
know  your  secret,  Felix,  and  I  don't  laugh." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  intolerable  that  she 
should  think  she  knew  his  secret.  "What  if  I  do  want  to 
write  plays?  I  want  to  write  novels,  and  poems,  and  lots  of 
other  things.  And  if  I  had  nothing  else  to  do,  perhaps 
I'd  try  my  hand  at  them  all.  But  my  main  concern  now  is  to 
make  a  living." 

"Still  worried  about  your  job?     Not  really?" 

"Yes,  really.  How  do  I  know  how  long  this  fool  stunt 
of  mine  is  going  to  please  the  Chronicle?  I  haven't  done  a 
single  piece  of  straight  reporting  since  I've  been  on  the 
paper.  And  I  know  no  more  of  the  real  Chicago — " 

"Felix,  you  are  absurd!" 


VIII.  Rose-Ann  Goes  Away 


ROSE-ANN  had  suddenly  become  a  problem.  In  spite 
of  everything  he  was  falling  in  love  with  her.  He 
criticized  her  to  himself,  harshly.  She  was  a 
daughter  of  the  bourgeoisie — a  sort  of  madcap  and  runaway 
daughter,  it  was  true,  adventuring  by  herself  in  Chicago  for 
a  while,  but  destined,  he  told  himself,  after  the  flare  of  this 
rebellion  had  burned  itself  out,  to  return  to  the  bourgeois  fold. 
What  else  could  she  do?  She  was  not  an  artist — or  not 
enough  of  an  artist — to  face  the  world  alone.  She  wrote 
a  little,  cleverly,  but  with  no  sustained  strength;  and  what 
she  wrote  was  inferior  to  what  she  thought  and  felt.  She 
was  one  of  those  people  who  might  have  been,  and  never 
would  be,  writers;  and  the  reason  was,  as  Felix  saw  it,  in 
her  bringing  up.  Some  softness  had  intervened  between 
her  and  reality;  she  could  see  reality  truly,  far  more  truly 
than  he  could;  but  its  sharp  edges  had  never  hurt  her,  it 
seemed;  her  mind  had  never  been  rowelled  by  the  spur  of 
painful  experience.  That  was  it.  She  had  never  been 
hurt  enough;  and  one  who  has  not  been  hurt  has  no  need 
of  the  artist's  revenge — the  act  of  re-creation  by  which  he 
triumphs  over  pain.  She  had  disliked  her  world ;  not  pro 
foundly,  but  a  little;  and  she  had  changed  it  sufficiently  by 
the  mere  act  of  coming  to  Chicago  and  living  in  a  settlement 
house  and  playing  with  costumes  and  scenery.  That  would 
content  her — would  more  than  satisfy  her  rebellious 
impulses.  She  talked  of  herself  as  one  of  the  "queer" 
people  of  the  settlement;  but  she  wasn't.  She  would  go 
back,  and  this  period  of  her  life  would  provide  her  a  fund 
of  humorous  reminiscence  at  bourgeois  dinner  parties  in 
Springfield,  Illinois,  where  she  would  be,  no  doubt,  quite 

62 


Rose-Ann  Goes  Away  63 

a  figure.  Paul,  with  his  "pewter-platter"  manner  Dick, 
the  boy  who  had  fled  from  Community  House  and  died  of 
pneumonia  in  the  slums,  and  himself,  would  quaintly  adorn 
her  reminiscences.  ...  So  Felix  argued  against  her  to 
himself ;  and  it  was  easy  enough  to  say  all  these  things  about 
her  when  she  was  not  there  to  deny  them  by  her  every  word 
and  gesture. 

In  her  presence  he  could  not  think  these  things.  She  was 
a  seeker  like  himself — imperfect  like  himself,  but  utterly 
sincere — a  comrade  in  the  very  simple  and  obvious  adven 
ture  of  making  the  most  out  of  life.  .  .  .  Why  was  he  so 
suspicious  of  her?  Was  it  because  he  had  vaguely  heard 
that  her  people  were  well-to-do  ?  She  was  not  to  blame  for 
that!  She  was  herself.  There  seemed  no  reason  to  dis 
trust  her. 

'But  these  arguments  sufficed  to  discourage  any  tendency 
to  romanticize  her.  She  was  less  a  wonderful  person  to  him 
now  than  a  dangerous  person.  Dangerous  only  in  the  sense 
that  she  might  make  a  fool  of  him.  Her  friendliness  was 
almost  more  than  mere  friendliness,  and  it  took  an  effort 
to  adjust  himself  to  it.  If  he  had  been  less  susceptible,  he 
might  have  taken  the  relationship  more  easily  for  what  it 
was.  If,  for  example,  he  could  only  have  put  his  arm 
around  her  shoulder  with  an  authentic  brotherliness !  But 
he  was  afraid  to.  No,  there  was  the  possibility  of  his 
making  a  romantic  damned  fool  of  himself  about  her,  and 
being  laughed  at — or  perhaps  gently  chided,  it  was  hard 
to  tell  which  would  be  worse.  He  could  run  the  risk  of 
that;  or  he  could  stiffly  keep  his  distance,  and  suffer  an 
occasional  sisterly  caress  without  returning  it.  He  pre 
ferred  to  keep  his  distance. 

Yet  there  were  times  when  all  this  seemed  an  absurd 
affectation.  They  would  be  sitting,  he  sprawled  on  her 
couch  and  she  rather  primly  upright  in  her  chair,  dis 
cussing  something,  when  suddenly  it  would  occur  to  him 
that  they  were  only  pretending  to  be  adults,  only  making- 
believe  at  this  intellectual  game — that  they  were  really 
only  boy  and  girl,  with  the  ancient  and  traditional  interest  of 


64  The  Briary-Bush 

boy  and  girl  in  each  other.  He  would  watch  her  as  she 
bent  forward,  with  her  curious  little  eager  frown,  intent 
upon  making  herself  clear;  and  then  he  would  note  his 
own  attitude,  tense  with  apparent  interest  in  what  was 
being  said.  "Hypocrites!"  he  would  address  himself  and 
her  in  his  mind.  "I  want  to  kiss  you — and  you  want  to, 
too.  And  we  don't.  Isn't  it  absurd!"  And  meantime  he 
answered  her  arguments  aloud.  "Little  liar !"  he  would  be 
saying  to  her  in  his  mind,  "If  I  came  over  and  put  my 
arms  about  you — !"  But  he  remained  where  he  was.  .  .  . 
And  then,  as  suddenly,  that  tender  and  humorous  insight 
into  the  situation  would  vanish,  and  she  would  appear  to 
him  an  alien — an  interesting  young  woman,  but  a  complete 
stranger — and  he  would  be  glad  he  had  not  done  anything 
silly. 


Then,  in  the  midst  of  the  preparations  for  the  Christ 
mas  performance  of  "The  Prince  and  the  Pauper,"  when 
everything  was  being  rushed  to  its  conclusion,  and  every 
body  interested  in  the  play  was  sitting  up  all  night  to  work 
on  costumes  or  scenery,  and  the  children  were  forgetting 
their  lines  or  getting  them  mixed  with  lines  rashly  learned 
from  Felix's  Pied  Piper  play,  there  came  an  interruption. 

One  evening  Rose-Ann  did  not  come  down  to  dinner,  and 
he  heard  one  of  the  residents  say  something  about  some 
body  in  Springfield  being  ill,  and  Rose-Ann's  being  called 
home. 

Knocking  at  her  door,  he  found  Rose-Ann  packing  and 
dressing  for  the  journey.  Her  mother  was  ill.  She  was 
taking  the  train  for  Springfield  in  half  an  hour. 

"Can  I  help  you?" 

"You  can  see  me  to  the  train  if  you  want  to.  Come  back 
in  about  ten  minutes  and  I'll  be  ready." 

He  had  the  feeling  that  this  was  the  last  he  would  see 
of  her.  .  .  . 

She   explained   the   situation   as    they   taxied   in   to   the 


Rose-Ann  Goes  Away  65 

station.  Her  mother's  illness,  she  was  sure,  was  nothing 
serious.  She  was  annoyed  at  being  telegraphed  for.  It 
would  upset  the  plans  for  the  Christmas  play.  Miss  Clark 
would  be  put  in  charge  of  her  group,  and  spoil  everything. 
The  telegram  was  just  a  trick  to  get  her  back  home  for  the 
holidays.  And  yet — "Curious!"  she  said,  "I  never  get 
along  with  my  mother,  and  I  don't  believe  there's  anything 
the  matter  with  her,  and  yet  I'm  as  worried  over  this 
telegram  as  if  I  were  the  most  dutiful  daughter  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  The  worst  of  going  back  home  is,  I  shall  be 
with  the  whole  family — especially  my  brothers.  They'll 
want  me  to  stay  there.  They  don't  approve  of  my  being 
alone  in  Chicago.  They're  just  using  mother  as  a  means  of 
getting  me  into  their  clutches.  They've  tried  it  before. 
And  when  I  find  that  it's  simply  mother's  annual  'spell,'  I'll 
tell  them  all  what  I  think  of  them  and  Springfield  and  the 
furniture  business — and  come  back.  I've  made  these 
flying  trips  three  times  now.  .  .  .  And  yet  I  am  worried." 

Felix  reflected  that  she  would  never  get  free  from  these 
family  claims — that  whatever  she  tried  to  do,  she  would 
be  always  called  back  to  Springfield,  and  would  obey  the 
call.  She  would  spend  her  whole  life  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  be  something  besides  a  daughter  and  sister  of  people 
who  were  inimical  to  all  her  wishes;  until  finally  she  sur 
rendered  to  them.  .  .  .  He  had  the  sense  of  hiding  these 
hostile  feelings  from  the  swift  friendly  glance  with  which 
she  looked  to  him  for  sympathy. 

They  had  just  time  to  catch  the  train.  Felix  gave  her 
suitcase  to  the  porter,  and  she  took  his  hand.  "Be  good 
while  I'm  gone,  Felix,"  she  said.  "Don't  do  anything 
awfully  foolish.  Good-bye."  She  leaned  to  him  and 
kissed  him — a  timid  little  kiss.  And  then  they  were  clinging 
to  each  other  in  a  stunned  and  breathless  embrace,  as  if 
they  had  been  flung  violently  into  each  other's  arms;  they 
kissed,  with  a  rude,  strong,  almost  painful  passion, — a 
kiss  that  hurt  and  could  not  hurt  enough  to  satisfy  them, 
and  then  become  infinitely  tender.  It  was  a  kiss  that  sought 


66  The  Briary-Bush 

to  annihilate  time  and  space,  to  make  them  remember  it  and 
what  it  meant  forever. 

"  'Bo-o-o-ard !"  said  the  conductor,  and  took  Rose-Ann's 
elbow  and  put  her  firmly  on  the  step.  She  turned  and 
smiled  back  at  Felix,  and  the  train  started. 


Book  Two 
Canal  Street 


IX.  How  to  Spend  One's  Evenings 


FELIX  began  the  task  of  forgetting— a  task  for  youth 
in  its  most  fantastically  stern  mood:— of  trying  to 
forget  that  unforgettable  moment  on  the  station  plat 
form  with  Rose-Ann.     Or  at  least,  to  behave  as  though  it 
had  not  occurred.     For  he  was  convinced  that  neither  of 
them  had  intended  it  to  occur. 

It  was  obviously  an  accident— the  mere  mood  of  parting. 
It  had  meant  nothing.  It  must  be  ignored. 

But  it  was  hard  to  ignore.  It  was  a  moment  to  which 
memory  would  recur.  It  dramatized  vividly  for  him  the 
fact_to  which  he  sought  to  adjust  himself— of  Rose- Ann's 

absence. 

Rose-Ann's  absence  made  a  great  deal  of  difference,  it 
seemed— and  not  only  to  himself.  What  she  had  predicted  in 
regard  to  her  dramatic  class  came  true  very  quickly. 
Under  Miss  Clark's  fussy  direction,  all  the  fun  was  taken 
out  of  the  work  for  everybody.  Mrs.  Perk  looked  on  the 
altered  face  of  things  with  an  air  of  wry  disapproval,  and 
whispered  to  Felix,  "Oh,  it's  not  the  same  place  at  all  any 
more!"  The  children  were  listless.  Paul  froze  into  a 
silent  rage  at  some  unfortunate  remark  of  Miss  Clark's 
about  his  scenery  and  left  Community  House,  and  Felix 
began  to  stay  away  from  the  rehearsals  altogether. 

He  wrote  these  things  to  Rose-Ann,  and  received  brief 
replies  which  showed  how  remote  all  these  matters  had  now 
become  to  her.  He  accepted  the  probability  that  Spring 
field  had  captured  her  for  good  and  all  this  time.  It  was 
true  that  she  always  inquired  in  a  friendly  way  about  the 
things  in  which  they  had  both  been  interested;  but  these 
weekly  inquiries  were  tinged  with  a  kind  of  faint  retrospec- 

69 


7O  The  Briary-Bush 

tive  glamour,  as  though  to  her  these  interests  were  already 
invested  with  the  pathos  of  distance.  She  was  evidently 
saying  good-bye  to  her  moment  of  freedom. 

Felix  did  not  tell  her  how  much  he  missed  her.  He 
was  rather  ashamed  of  the  fact.  There  was  something 
intellectually  disgraceful  about  a  state  of  dependence  upon 
one  person  for  companionship.  .  .  . 

It  was  true,  he  had  Clive.  But  he  had  been  neglecting 
Clive,  and  now  Clive  had  other  concerns.  Clive  had  several 
times  urged  him  to  come  out  over  the  week-end  to  Woods 
Point,  where  he  was  undertaking  to  spend  the  winter  in 
his  summer  cottage,  and  Felix  had  always  had  some  engage 
ment  with  Rose-Ann  which  prevented  his  going.  Now, 
when  he  would  be  glad  to  accept  such  an  invitation,  it  was 
not  renewed;  Clive,  it  appeared,  was  so  much  interested  in 
some  girl  that  he  had  no  time  to  spare  for  Felix.  And  Clive 
was  the  only  person  about  the  office  that  he  cared  for;  at 
Community  House  since  Rose-Ann  had  gone,  there  was 
no  one.  He  wished  that  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  make  a 
few  more  friends.  It  made  all  the  difference  in  the  world 
to  have  some  one  to  talk  to  at  the  day's  end,  some  one  to 
share  one's  thoughts  with.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  he  began  to  find  Community  House  intolerable. 
He  spent  his  evenings  looking  for  a  place  to  live.  Certainly 
he  could  not  be  less  lonely  anywhere  else !  And  one 
evening,  on  Canal  Street,  in  a  dingy  building  which  had 
apparently  once  been  a  residence  and  was  now  rented  out 
room  by  room,  he  found  a  tiny  hall-room  on  the  third 
(floor  which  he  had  not  the  excuse  of  not  being  able  to 
afford.  He  made  some  explanation  for  leaving  Community 
House — which  it  seemed  was  not  needed,  for  room  there 
was  much  in  demand — and  moved  at  once  into  his  new 
home. 

It  was  a  room  about  eight  by  eleven  feet,  hardly  holding 
the  cot-bed,  table  and  chair,  which  constituted  its  furnishing. 
He  improvised  a  shelf  above  the  tiny  radiator  in  the  corner 
for  his  half-dozen  books.  .  .  .  And  for  one  evening  he  was 


How  to  Spend  One's  Evenings        71 

happy,  in  being  away  from  Community  House,  in  being 
in  a  place  of  his  own,  in  having  in  some  way  established 
his  independence. 

And  then  loneliness  descended  upon  him  in  a  black  mist, 
obliterating  the  clear  outlines  of  the  actual  world.  He 
managed  to  get  through  the  day's  work  somehow,  and  then  he 
wandered  about  hopelessly,  unseeingly,  the  victim  of  a  long 
ing  that  made  the  very  act  of  breathing  a  pain ;  a  longing  that 
he  could  not  undertand — for  what  was  Rose- Ann  to  him? 


He  dined  in  various  restaurants  in  the  loop,  in  the  vague 
hope  of  finding  some  one  to  talk  to. 

One  evening,  as  he  stood  in  a  restaurant  looking  about 
for  an  empty  table,  he  heard  his  name  called.  A  young 
man,  sitting  alone,  was  beckoning  to  him.  It  was  Eddie 
Silver,  a  reporter  of  whom  Felix  had  been  hearing  much 
of  late. 

"Come  over  and  congratulate  me,"  he  said,  grinning, 
"I've  just  been  fired!" 

"Really?    What    for?"   Felix   asked. 

"Coming  down  to  the  office  crazy  drunk,"  said  Eddie 
Silver  proudly.  "Sit  down." 

Felix  had  heard  of  Eddie  Silver's  epic  drunkennesses. 
Another  thing  he  had  heard  was  that  Eddie  Silver  wrote 
poetry.  .  .  .  This  was  not  so  rare  a  thing  among  Chicago 
reporters  as  Felix  would  have  supposed.  Two  in  every 
dozen  young  reporters,  as  Clive  had  said,  were  poets  of  a 
sort.  But,  as  Give  had  added,  it  was  always  of  a  tame 
and  colourless  sort.  Eddie  Silver  was  not  tame  and  colour 
less,  whatever  his  poetry  might  be.  Or  rather  there  was 
nothing  tame  about  the  Eddie  Silver  legend — though  its 
hero  had  appeared  to  Felix,  whenever  they  met,  to  be  the 
gentlest  soul  alive. 

Eddie  Silver  was  having  a  dinner  which  consisted  mostly 
of  cocktails;  but  he  showed  no  signs  of  any  of  the  alcoholic 
belligerency  for  which  he  was  famed;  he  seemed,  on  the 


72  The  Briary-Bush 

contrary,  likely  to  -burst  into  tears  at  any  moment.  He 
was  in  a  soft  poetic  mood.  He  talked  about  poetry.  He 
tried  to  recite  it.  But  the  lines  kept  getting  mixed  up. 

"Come  on  over  my  place,"  he  said,  "we'll  read  some 
Swinburne." 

He  took  Felix  to  a  large  furnished  room  a  little  to  the 
north  of  the  loop,  and  propping  himself  on  a  couch  with 
pillows,  read  "Poems  and  Ballads"  in  a  sonorous  and  un 
intelligible  manner  until  midnight.  He  invited  Felix  to 
come  back  the  next  evening  for  more  Swinburne,  and  Felix 
went  away  feeling  that  the  legend  had  rather  over 
emphasized  the  belligerent  side  of  Eddie  Silver's  character. 
.  .  .  He  came  the  next  evening,  which  was  spent  in 
precisely  the  same  manner,  ending  with  an  invitation  to 
come  in  tomorrow  evening  for  still  more  Swinburne. 

Felix  wondered  if  Eddie  Silver  read  Swinburne  every 
night. 

Coming  the  third  time,  he  found  Eddie  Silver's  room 
occupied  by  half  a  dozen  young  men  all  more  or  less  drunk. 
"Cm'  on  in!"  Eddie  Silver  called  from  the  couch,  where 
he  sat  propped  with  pillows  as  before,  with  a  book  in  one 
hand  and  a  glass  in  the  other.  "On'y  two  bo'l's  o'  Swin 
burne  left!" 

He  rose,  and  poured  a  glassful  of  whiskey  for  Felix. 
Felix   looked  at   the  huge   drink  with   an  involuntary 
gesture  of  dismay. 

"  'S  all  right,"  said  Eddie  Silver.  "Nas'y  stuff,  I  know ! 
But  you  take  it  'n'  you'll  feel  better  right  away!" 

Felix  had  never  been  drunk.  He  had  never  wanted  to 
be  drunk.  But  it  occurred  to  him  that  now  was  the  proper 
time  to  have  that  experience. 

He  looked  about  the  room.  All  these  half  dozen  people 
were  in  that  state,  so  eloquently  described  by  the  poets,  of 
being  "perplexed  no  more  with  human  and  divine." 

One  of  them  was  telling  an  incoherent  story,  and  two 
others  were  laughing  in  the  wrong  place  and  being  told 
indignantly  that  that  wasn't  the  point  at  all.  Another  was 
singing  to  himself,  and  not  doing  it  very  well.  Poor  devil ! 


How  to  Spend  One's  Evenings        73 

he  probably  wanted  to  sing  and  nobody  would  let  him  except 
when  he  was  drunk.  And  still  another  was  arguing  with 
Eddie  Silver,  who  paid  no  attention  to  him  whatever,  about 
somebody  named  John.  "John  means  well,"  he  explained, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  understands  all  and  forgives  all. 
"John  just  don't  know  how,  that's  all !  But  he  means  well." 

Felix  considered.  Did  he  really  wish  to  join  them  in  that 
state,  so  merely  ridiculous  when  viewed  from  the  outside? 
Yet  they  were  doubtless  happy,  in  some  way  which  he,  in 
his  inexperience,  knew  nothing  about.  Well,  he  would  try 
it.  He  would  get  drunk. 

And  he  might  as  well  do  it  quickly. 

He  drank  half  the  glassful  down,  choked,  and  was 
slapped  on  the  back.  He  waited. 

He  was  surprised,  and  a  little  disappointed,  to  find  that  it 
had  no  further  effect  than  the  same  gentle  exhilaration  he 
had  experienced  from  an  evening's  slow  sipping  of  his 
friend  Tom  Alden's  Rhine  wine.  That  was  not  what  he 
wanted.  That  was  not  enough.  He  braced  himself,  and 
drank  the  rest  of  the  glassful. 

Some  hours  later  he  was  awakened  from  a  deep  and 
peaceful  sleep  on  the  floor  of  the  bathroom  by  two  of  his 
companions,  and  walked  out  of  the  house.  ...  He  felt 
refreshed  by  the  night  air,  and  remembered  a  discussion 
about  Chicago,  and  of  slapping  somebody's  face.  He  did 
not  remember  being  knocked  down — several  times,  they 
said.  By  a  man  named  Smith.  He  did  not  remember 
Smith. 

"And  every  time,"  they  told  him  gleefully,  "you  got 
up  and  solemnly  slapped  his  face  again.  You  said  you 
wouldn't  allow  anybody  to  talk  that  way  about  Chicago.  .  .  . 
And  you  kept  calling  him  'McFish.'  " 

His  companions  were  taking  him  home.  He  thanked 
them  extravagantly,  and  tried  to  give  them  directions,  but 
they  explained  that  they  lived  in  the  same  building  he  did 
— a  fact  which  at  the  time  he  found  very  puzzling.  Never 
theless  they  affirmed  that  it  was  so. 

He  got  up  two  flights  of  stairs  without  assistance,  and 


74  The  Briary-Bush 

opened  his  door,  but  immediately  became  overcome  with 
sleep,  and  sank  on  the  couch.  They  pulled  off  his  shoes 
and  left  him.  .  .  . 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  awoke,  located  himself 
after  a  momentary  wonderment  and  shook  his  head.  No 
headache!  That  was  strange!  Apparently  he  was  not 
going  to  suffer  the  traditional  aftermath.  .  .  .  He  went  to 
take  a  cold  bath,  and  returning  found  one  of  his  companions 
of  the  night  before  in  the  hall.  "How  do  you  feel?"  He 
felt  fine.  He  had  some  breakfast  at  the  nearest  restaurant, 
and  went  to  work. 


X.  The  Detached  Attitude 


HIS  kindly  neighbors,  who  lived  in  the  big  room  at  the 
back  next  to  his  own,  were  Roger  Sully  and  Don 
Carew,  so  he  learned  from  the  inscription  on  their 
mail-box  in  the  entrance.  He  went  in  that  evening  after 
dinner  to  thank  them. 

He  was  surprised  to  find,  in  this  dingy  building,  so 
charming  a  room — strikingly  in  contrast  to  his  own  bare 
and  cheerless  one.  Across  one  wall  a  blazing  splash  of 
colour — some  kind  of  foreign-looking  dyed-stuff — and  a 
few  brilliant  cushions  on  the  couch,  warmed  the  place  and 
made  him  forget  what  seemed  the  bleak  chill  of  all  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

Roger,  it  appeared,  was  the  fat  little  man  with  the  air  of 
distinction,  who  was  making  coffee  in  a  glass  bulb  over  an 
alcohol  lamp.  Don,  a  long  and  bony  youth,  was  stretched  at 
ease  in  a  big  chair. 

"Have  some  coffee  with  us,"  said  Roger.  "It  will  be  good 
coffee,  I  promise  you.  And  good  coffee,"  he  went  on  in  his 
gently  modulated  voice,  "is  one  of  the  few  really  important 
things  in  life." 

"And  a  cigarette,"  said  Don,  rising  to  offer  him  a  box  of 
queer-looking  Russian  things  with  long  pasteboard  mouth 
pieces.  As  he  offered  the  cigarettes  with  one  hand,  he  raised 
the  other  and  ran  his  long  fingers  through  his  fair  touseled 
hair,  reducing  it  to  a  state  of  more  picturesque  disorder. 
He  made  this  gesture  continually,  not  in  mere  nervousness 
but  as  if  he  were  caressing  something  he  liked. 

The  coffee  was  very  good,  and  Felix  drank  it  gratefully. 
The  two  hosts  drank  it  as  though  it  were  a  rite,  Felix  ob 
served,  a  veritable  and  solemn  ceremonial.  They  smoked 

75 


76  The  Briary-Bush 


cigarettes  the  same  way — slowly,  as  if  tasting  each  inhalation 
with  a  devout  palate.  And  aside  from  these  rather  solemn 
sensory  enthusiasms,  they  maintained  a  slightly  bored  air. 

They  referred  to  the  incident  of  the  night  before  as  if  it 
had  happened  a  thousand  years  ago.  It  did  not  appear  to  in 
terest  them  in  the  least,  and  Felix  found  it  difficult  to  identify 
them  with  the  delightedly  chattering  companions  who  had  es 
corted  him  home — until  something  that  was  said  seemed  to 
break  the  spell,  and  Roger  leaned  forward  eagerly  and  de 
manded  : 

"Yes — now  why  did  you  call  him  McFish?  Have  you  any 
idea?" 

"Yes— why?"  echoed  Don,  also  alert. 

Felix  did  not  know,  and  could  not  imagine  why  anybody 
should  care  to  probe  the  secret  of  a  mere  drunken  mistake  in 
nomenclature.  .  .  .  The  McFish  incident  reminded  them  of 
some  equally  esoteric  mistake  made  upon  some  similar  oc 
casion,  and  they  spent  an  hour  in  a  quite  excited  discussion 
of  psychic  revelations  which  seemed  to  Felix  both  immate 
rial  and  irrelevant.  He  went  away  feeling  as  though  he  had 
stepped  by  inadvertence  into  a  chapter  by  Henry  James,  and 
he  decided  not  to  come  again. 

But  he  did  drop  in  a  few  evenings  later,  in  sheer  bore 
dom,  and  drank  their  coffee,  and  found  that  upon  occasion 
they  could  tell  a  really  amusing  story — or  was  it  rather  that 
he  had  begun  to  understand  the  point  of  view  from  which 
they  found  things  amusing? 

One  phrase  in  their  talk,  solemnly  uttered,  caught  his 
fancy.  He  had  seen  it  in  books,  but  as  used  by  them  it 
seemed  to  have  a  special  significance. 

"The  detached  attitude?"  he  repeated  inquiringly. 

They  smiled  a  little  pitingly  at  him,  and  explained.  The 
detached  attitude  was  the  proper  state  of  mind  for  an  artist. 
It  was  an  attitude  toward  life  which  painters  had  learned, 
but  which  writers  generally  had  forgotten  and  must  re-learn 
if  they  were  ever  to  make  writing  a  true  art  again.  The 
Greeks  had  the  detached  attitude.  Flaubert  had  it.  ... 
And  obviously  Don  and  Roger  also  had  it. 


The  Detached  Attitude  77 

Felix  suspected  that  it  might  be  simply  another  name  for 
boredom,  but  he  did  not  venture  to  say  so. 

The  artist,  they  went  on — one  taking  up  the  argument 
languidly  where  the  other  left  off — should  strictly  avoid  per 
sonal  experience.  He  should  hold  himself  austerely  aloof 
from  participation  in  human  affairs.  .  .  . 

"But  I  thought,"  said  Felix,  "that  what  the  artist  was  sup 
posed  to  need  was  experience !" 

"A  vulgar  error,"  said  Roger  scornfully. 

"What  an  artist  needs,"  said  Don,  "is  background/' 

And  background,  Felix  gathered  from  their  further  ex 
planations,  was  something  one  got  by  being  in  many  differ 
ent  places  without  ever  settling  down  and  belonging  to  any 
one  place — by  merely  being  there  and,  as  Roger  put  it,  "look 
ing  on  disinterestedly  while  other  people  passionately  and 
ridiculously  did  things." 

The  idea  rather  appealed  to  Felix.  .  .  .  He  secretly  wished 
he  had  stood  by  and  looked  on  while  the  others  got  drunk 
that  night.  He  regretted  his  participation  in  that  scene — re 
gretted  it  in  spite  of  the  absence  of  any  of  the  traditional  un 
pleasant  after-effects.  He  wished  he  had  remained  austerely 
aloof  from  the  human  activities  of  that  occasion.  What, 
after  all,  was  the  use  of  passionately  hitting  somebody  in  the 
face  if  you  couldn't  remember  afterward  what  it  was  all 
about?  .  .  .  He  was  inclined  to  think  that  Roger  and  Don 
were  right ;  it  was  not  the  meaningless  raw  material  of  ex 
perience  that  one  needed,  but  some  calm,  fixed  point  of  view 
from  which  to  look  on  and  understand  it. 

Did  they  have  such  a  point  of  view  ?  He  began  to  respect 
and  envy  them. 


It  was  strange — he  said  to  himself — that  he  should  con 
tinue  to  be  so  upset  by  Rose-Ann's  absence!  He  realized 
grudgingly  and  unwillingly  how  much  the  centre  of  his 
Chicago  she  had  been.  Without  her  companionship,  his  life 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  significance. 

His  class  at  Community  House  had  come  to  seem  a  nui- 


78  The  Briary-Bush 

sance,  his  newspaper  work  mere  empty  trickery.  And 
there  was  nothing  in  the  outside  world  to  turn  to,  no  cause 
that  seemed  worth  serving.  Socialism — it  was  too  Utopian. 
Social  reform — perhaps  that  was  not  Utopian  enough.  The 
art  of  writing — no,  he  must  not  think  of  that.  .  .  .  He 
found  in  his  life  nothing  to  give  it  meaning. 

Rose- Ann's  letters  increased  his  sense  of  futility.  They 
were  friendly  letters,  telling  of  her  mother's  illness,  which  it 
seemed  was  sufficiently  real  this  time,  and  of  her  encounters 
with  a  family  of  aggressively  brotherly  brothers ;  and  to  these 
letters  he  had  responded  in  equally  friendly  terms. 

That  was  the  trouble.  He  did  not  want  to  write  friendly 
letters.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  write  angry  letters.  He  wanted 
to  tell  her  to  stop  writing  to  him — to  let  him  alone,  and  let 
him  forget  her,  as  she  would  soon  forget  him.  He  wanted 
to  say :  "You  know,  and  I  know,  that  your  moment  of  free 
dom,  and  all  it  promised,  is  over  for  good  now.  Springfield 
has  got  you,  you  belong  to  your  family  again,  you  will  never 
come  back  except  as  the  wife  of  some  fat  Springfield  manu 
facturer,  to  see  the  sights,  or  go  to  the  theater  with  him  and 
show  off  your  new  gowns,  and — yes,  you  will  come  to  Com 
munity  House,  and  visit  your  old  class,  and  as  you  go  away 
you  will  say  to  your  husband,  'I  used  to  know  such  a  quaint 
and  interesting  boy  here — I  wonder  what  has  become  of 
him !'  And  your  fat  husband  will  put  his  fat  cigar  into  the 
other  corner  of  his  fat  mouth,  and  say,  'Yes,  I  suppose  it's  a 
good  thing  your  folks  got  you  back  to  Springfield  when  they 
did !'  But  he  will  be  wrong,  at  that ;  Springfield  is  your 
natural  habitat,  you  would  ha,ve  gone  back  there  any 
way.  .  .  ." 

He  wanted  to  write  absurd  things  like  that  to  her.  Instead, 
he  wrote  friendly  letters,  "frank"  and  comradely  and  cool, 
in  the  tone  in  which  their  whole  relationship  had  been 
couched  from  the  first,  up  to  that  insane  moment  on  the 
station  platform.  .  .  . 

He  was  ashamed  of  himself  for  thinking  so  much  about 
her.  Of  course  he  was  not  in  love  witli  her !  He  was  merely 
lonely. 


The  Detached  Attitude  79 

Clive  was  still  preoccupied  with  that  troublesome  girl  to 
whom  he  had  darkly  and  allusively  referred  in  their  infre 
quent  luncheons  together. 

He  needed  other  friends.  He  called  on  Roger  and  Don 
one  Sunday  afternoon,  and  they  were  primping  to  go  out  to  a 
tea,  and  urged  him  to  come  along.  "It's  at  Doris's — you 
know  Doris,  don't  you  ?  Doris  Pelman.  You'll  like  her." 

Doris  Pelman's  apartment,  somewhere  on  the  north  side, 
was  like  Don's  and  Roger's  in  having  a  certain  impressive 
charm  which  consisted  precisely  in  its  being  un-homelike. 
It  was  meant,  somehow,  to  be  looked  at,  rather  than  lived  in. 
The  chairs  were  thin-legged  and  rickety,  but  doubtless 
genuine  antiques;  the  rugs  were  hung  on  the  walls  instead 
of  on  the  floor;  and  on  the  walls,  too,  were  dim  Chinese 
paintings  to  whose  beauty  Felix  was  dense;  yet  altogether 
the  place  had  an  effect  of  being  somewhere  quite  out  of 
the  world,  and  Felix  liked  it  for  that. 

He  was  introduced  at  once  to  half-a-dozen  young  men  and 
women,  and  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  to  half-a-dozen 
more.  The  young  men  greeted  Don  and  Roger  with  a  lan 
guid  enthusiasm,  and  the  young  women  with  a  sort  of  bois 
terous  camaraderie.  Felix  was  struck  by  something  at  once 
delicate  and  artificial  about  these  young  men,  something 
which  he  had  at  first  noted  and  then  became  oblivious  to  in 
Roger  and  Don.  Among  them,  he  felt  somehow  coarse  and 
brutal.  .  .  .  He  had  an  impulse  to  swear,  or  spit  on  the 
floor. 

Don  and  Roger  and  two  other  young  men  were  talking 
about  travel.  A  nostalgia  for  foreign  parts  seemed  to  afflict 
them  all.  They  had,  it  seemed,  been  everywhere  in  Europe ; 
and  most  of  them  knew,  with  an  especial  and  fond  intimacy, 
the  geography  of  France,  Italy,  and  Spain.  They  had  all 
been  somewhere,  if  not  East  of  Suez,  at  least  somewhere  ex- 
otically  remote,  last  year;  and  they  were  going  somewhere 
even  more  strange  and  distant,  next  year.  With  Don  and 
Roger  the  question  was,  Tunis  or  Tahiti  ?— they  could  not 
decide  which. 

Felix  had  accepted  this  travel-mania  as  part  of  Don's  and 


8o  The  Briary-Bush 

Roger's  interesting  scheme  of  life.  Sometimes  he  had  even 
envied  them,  for  they  boasted  that  they  did  all  this  travelling 
"on  their  wits" ;  they  insisted  that  one  could  go  anywhere  and 
live  well,  without  money — and  Felix  had  felt  rather  ashamed 
of  his  own  singular  lack  of  nomadic  enterprise.  But  today 
he  felt  annoyed  with  them.  He  remarked  to  himself  that 
though  he  had  not  ostensibly  travelled,  he  had  actually  spent 
his  life  in  changing  his  place  of  habitation,  from  house  to 
house  and  from  town  to  town ;  and  even  if  these  places  were 
only  the  same  middle-western  town  all  over  again  each  time, 
yet  he  felt  that  he  had  never  stayed  long  enough  to  get  really 
acquainted  with  it!  He  observed  aloud,  challenging^,  that 
he  thought  one  might  stay  in  a  city  like  Chicago  the  whole 
of  one's  life  without  quite  exhausting  its  interest. 

The  four  young  men  raised  their  eyebrows,  and  uttered 
impressively  the  names  of  the  great  capitals  of  Europe ;  and 
even  more  unctuously  the  names  of  little  out-of-the-way 
foreign  towns  of  which  he  had  never  heard. 

"The  trouble  with  writers,"  Don  remarked — he  and  Roger 
paid  Felix  the  compliment  of  regarding  him  as  a  fellow- 
writer — "is  that  they  try  to  write  before  they  have  sufficient 
background." 

Evidently,  Felix  reflected,  Don  and  Roger  had  not  made 
that  mistake !  They  had  been  acquiring  background  for 
years,  according  to  their  own  testimony — Roger  for  some  ten 
years,  and  Don  for  perhaps  five.  And  neither  of  them  had, 
so  far  as  he  could  discover,  written  anything  yet !  .  .  .  And 
when  would  they  begin,  with  so  much  background  still  left  to 
be  acquired  ?  Tunis  and  Tahiti ! 

He  turned  impatiently  to  the  young  women.  .  .  .  They 
seemed  at  first  much  more  congenial  spirits.  And  yet  there 
was  something  odd  about  them,  too — something  odd  in  their 
very  friendliness.  His  hostess,  Doris  Pelman,  a  strikingly 
handsome  girl,  tall  and  fair,  was  the  one  with  whom  he  had 
what  most  nearly  resembled  a  conversation — a  thing  difficult 
enough  to  achieve  at  a  tea.  What  immediately  impressed 
him  was  that  she  did  not  seem  at  all  conscious  of  her  looks — 
she  might,  from  her  behaviour,  not  have  been  possessed  of 


The  Detached  Attitude  81 

any;  or  rather,  the  mysterious  barrier  across  which  two 
strangers,  man  and  woman,  must  communicate,  seemed  not  to 
be  there  for  her ;  she  was  apparently  unaware  of  herself  and 
him,  in  a  way  that  even  old  Mrs.  Perk,  a  grandmother,  never 
could  be.  There  was  in  her  manner  an  utter  absence  of  shy 
ness,  an  apparent  perfect  ease  in  this  contact  of  personalities. 
But  in  her  easy  unembarrassed  friendliness  there  was  some 
thing  steely  and  aloof — a  fundamental  untouchableness.  She 
talked  fluently,  about  his  work  and  hers — she  was  an  interior 
decorator,  it  appeared, — about  the  new  books  and  plays,  and, 
with  an  especial  zest,  about  people.  ...  A  peculiar  zest, 
too:  she  had  a  way,  which  at  first  gave  him  an  uncanny 
feeling,  of  talking  about  human  beings  as  though  they  were 
insects.  The  only  things  of  which  she  spoke  with  visible 
affection  were  the  fabrics  and  materials  of  her  profession— 
and  art  in  general. 

But  they  were  all,  he  felt,  rather  like  this.  The  tea  had 
become  a  kind  of  family  gathering,  in  which  only  Felix  felt 
out  of  place.  Dusk  fell,  tall  candles  were  lighted,  and  every 
one  became  anecdotal.  It  would  seem  that  they  had  spent 
their  lives  in  collecting  these  anecdotes,  and  they  related  them 
and  heard  them  with  an  inexhaustible  relish — each  one  being 
rehearsed  at  full  length  with  a  loving  care  for  the  minutest 
psychological  details.  Some  of  the.se  stories  were  apparently 
precious  gems  in  their  collection,  worthy  of  being  taken  out 
and  enjoyed  over  and  over  again.  Other  stories  they  laughed 
over  uproariously,  chokingly,  helplessly — though  to  Felix 
the  point  of  these  seemed  frequently  rather  obscure,  and  sel 
dom  very  funny. 

He  went  away  feeling  surprised,  and  not  knowing  quite 
whether  he  was  disappointed  or  grateful  at  the  absence  of 
any  challenge  in  these  new  feminine  acquaintanceships.  He 
had  never  consciously  realized,  except  now  in  its  absence, 
that  undercurrent  of  vague  questioning,  at  once  delightful 
and  disconcerting,  as  to  just  what  there  might  be  in  a  new 
"friendship"— what  rich  and  beautiful  possibilities  it  might 
hold  in  store:  all  the  familiar  and  foolish  day-dreaming 
that  follows  the  most  casual  meeting  of  masculine  with  femi- 


82  The  Briary-Rush 

nine  youth.  But  here  there  was  no  question  whatever ;  imagi 
nation  took  no  hold  on  this  extraordinarily  self-possessed, 
this  imperturbable  young  womanhood.  .  .  .  Here  was,  in 
deed,  the  "detached  attitude" ! 


XI.  An  Adventure  in  Philosophy 


HE  had  not  confided  to  Rose-Ann  the  fact  of  his 
change  of  residence — though  he  had  asked  her  to  ad 
dress  him  in  care  of  the  Chronicle.     But  after  some 
hesitation,  he  did  write  to  her  an  account  of  some  of  the  new 
impressions  of  Chicago  which  that  change  of  residence  had 
yielded.      He  did  so  with  the  feeling,  which  he  could  not  logi 
cally  defend,  that  these  things  concerned  her  equally  with 
himself.     He  told  her  of  Don  and  Roger,  of  Doris  Pelman, 
and  the  detached  attitude.     "Adventures  in  philosophy,"  he 
called  them ;  and  he  added : 

"These  people  find  life  ugly*  I  think,  and  so  they  avoid  and 
evade  it.  That  is  what  I  seem  to  myself  to  be  doing  at  present, 
too.  But  I  am  not  like  them — /  cannot  just  look  on  and  be 
amused.  Only  I  want  to  live  my  life  understandingly — and  I 
seem  to  have  lost  my  bearings." 

A  boyish  letter,  he  thought,  having  sent  it;  and  he  was 
glad  enough  that  her  reply  made  no  mention  of  its  contents — 
being,  in  fact,  only  a  brief,  hurried  uncommunicative  note  of 
acknowledgement.  But  its  briefness  did  not  hurt  him;  by 
the  time  it  came  she  was  an  utter  stranger  to  him  again.  He 
glanced  at  her  note,  threw  it  in  the  waste-basket,  and  went 
on  writing  some  meaningless  story  for  the  Chronicle.  .  .  . 
After  all,  he  had  one  thing  left — a  certain  pride  in  his  work: 
though  it  was  all  of  no  consequence,  he  knew  whether  it  was 
good  or  bad — nothing  could  take  that  away  from  him.  .  .  . 

2 

And  then  at  another  of  Doris  Pelman's  teas  he  began 
another  "adventure  in  philosophy." 

He  had  been  invited  to  come  again.     It  appeared  that  these 

83 


84  The  Briary-Bush 

teas  were  an  institution.  He  came,  out  of  curiosity,  and  left 
early;  and  as  he  went  out  into  the  hall  he  was  joined  by  a 
young  man  who  had  come  late,  and  who  had  sat  in  the  corner 
silently  and  with  an  expression  of  weary  gloom.  He  was  a 
short,  thick-set  young  man  with  curly  black  hair  and  heavy 
lips.  He  had  interested  Felix  as  possibly — he  thought  cer 
tainly — the  only  person  there  besides  himself  who  did  not  feel 
at  home  in  that  group. 

Outside  the  apartment  door,  he  turned  to  Felix  with  an 
expression  of  extreme  distaste. 

"La-de-da !"  he  said  with  a  glance  backward  in  the 
direction  of  the  company  they  had  just  quitted.  Felix 
smiled  sympathetically. 

"You  know,  those  aesthetic  birds,"  the  young  man  went  on, 
as  they  descended  the  stairs,  " — they  make  me  sick."  They 
emerged  upon  the  sidewalk.  "Come  on,"  said  the  young 
man,  "I  know  where  there's  a  real  party  going  on  tonight, 
with  some  real  girls.  We'll  get  some  grub,  and  then  we'll 
take  it  in.  D'you  ever  eat  at  George's?  It's  a  Greek  place 
on  Clark  street,  just  north  of  the  loop.  Not  bad  at  all. — I 
know  you,"  he  added.  "You  work  on  the  Chronicle.  You 
don't  know  me,  but  you  ought  to — I'm  a  pretty  good  scout. 
My  name's  Budge — Victor  Budge.  I'm  studying  at  Rush." 

"At  what?"  Felix  interjected. 

"Rush — Rush  Medical  College.  Going  to  be  one  of  the 
best  little  surgeons  that  ever  cut  out  a  gizzard."  He  gave 
a  dramatic  flourish  of  his  hand,  as  if  wielding  a  scalpel.  "But 
that's  not  all.  I  write,  too.  In  me  you  behold  the  world's 
greatest  novelist,  living,  dead,  or  unborn.  Well  may  you  be 
amazed — though  I  must  say  that  you  take  the  news  rather 
calmly.  I'll  tell  you  about  it.  I  have  a  theory  about  art — 
just  like  those  birds  in  there;  only  I've  got  the  correct  dope. 
The  trouble  with  art  is  that  it's  too  detached  from  life.  My 
idea  is  that  the  artist — the  writer — has  got  to  belong  to  the 
world  he  lives  in — has  got  to  be  a  part  of  it.  That's  why  I'm 
going  to  be  a  surgeon.  With  a  simple  twist  of  my  accom 
plished  wrist,  and  a  four  years'  course  in  human  guts,  I  shall 
be  able  to  make  an  honest  living,  and  write  on  the  s-ide.  Like 


An  Adventure  in  Philosophy          85 

Chekhov.  I  never  read  anything  he  wrote,  but  I  understand 
he's  some  writer.  Yes,  believe  me,  I  shall  put  it  all  over 
these  literary  fakers ! — You  know  Roger  Sully  ?" 

"Yes — and  Don.     The  others  I've  merely  met." 

"Well,  they're  always  gassing  about  where  they've  been — 
London,  Paris,  and  places  you  never  heard  of.  They've 
made  a  business  of  bumming  all  over  the  world.  And  they 
call  that  learning  to  write !" 

"Acquiring  background,"  assented  Felix. 

"That's  the  word.  And  avoiding  anything  that  resembles 
real  work.  They  have  an  elaborate  code  of  morals  about  not 
working.  It's  a  point  of  honor  with  them  not  to  work  in  an 
office,  not  to  have  any  job  that  requires  regular  hours,  and 
not  to  stick  at  anything  longer  than  a  month  or  so.  A  job, 
says  Roger,  is  fatal  to  the  spirit  of  art !  Can  you  beat  that?" 

"But  how  do  they  get  along?"  asked  Felix.  He  had 
wondered,  for  in  his  visits  to  the  Sully-Carew  apartment 
there  had  never  been  any  mention  of  the  manner  of  their 
subsistence. 

"Oh,  odd  jobs  on  trade  papers,  publicity  stuff — anything. 
Or  nothing.  Mostly  nothing  right  now,  I  guess.  People 
can  live  quite  a  while  on  c'offee  and  cigarettes,  and  an  oc 
casional  invitation  to  dinner.  And  when  they're  short  of 
cash,  they  can  warm  themselves  with  memories  of  the  equa 
tor,  I  suppose." 

They  reached  the  little  basement  restaurant,  and  entered, 
"I'll  order  for  you,  if  you  don't  know  the  grub,"  said  Victor 
Budge.  "This  is  on  me  anyway.  One  lamb  kapama,  one 
shish  kebab,  lots  of  olives,  some  red  ink,  two  baklavas,  and 
Turkish  coffee.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  ripe  olives,  of  course." 

The  olives  were  put  before  them.  "Those  remind  me  of 
Roger,"  said  Victor  Budge.  "We  were  having  dinner  here 
one  night,  and  he  lifted  one  olive  up,  like  this,  delicately- 
poor  devil,  I'll  bet  he  hadn't  had  a  square  meal  for  a  week — 
and  said,  'When  I  shut  my  eyes  and  taste  one  of  these  salty 
olives,  I  am  back  on  the  Mediterranean,  in  a  boat  with  a  la 
teen  sail !'  What  do  you  know  about  that !" 

Felix  found  himself  rather  sympathizing  with  Roger,  and 


86  The  Briary-Bush 

resenting  the  vulgarity  of  outlook  of  this  young  man,  which 
like  his  vulgarity  of  speech,  seemed  deliberate  and 
forced.  .  .  . 

The  food  came,  and  Victor  Budge  served  it.  *Tm  a  real 
ist,"  he  said.  "When  I'm  hungry,  I  know  it.  I  don't 
pretend  that  I  like  olives  because  they  remind  me  of  the  Med 
iterranean  :  grub  is  grub — you  need  it,  and  you've  got  to  have 
it.  And  if  you  take  life  simply  and  realistically,  it's  not 
hard  to  get  all  you  want  of  it.  What's  the  use  of  starving  in 
a  garret  ?  You  and  I  know  what  life  is  like,  and  that  it's  a 
pretty  good  old  game  if  you  play  it  like  everybody  else  does. 
Be  like  other  folks !  Why  should  an  artist  feel  that  he  has 
to  be  so  damn  refined  and  superior?  What's  good  enough 
for  ordinary  people  is  good  enough  for  me.  I  don't  believe 
in  this  artistic  belly-aching-around  about  how  coarse  and 
vulgar  life  is.  Take  things  as  you  find  'em,  and  don't  bawl 
for  the  moon.  That's  what  I  say." 

In  spite  of  the  way  Victor  Budge  put  this  philosophy — its 
boisterousness  somehow  smacked  of  an  inner  lack  of  convic 
tion,  as  though  he  were  arguing  to  convince  himself — yet 
there  seemed  to  be  sound  sense  in  it.  That,  after  all,  was 
what  Felix  himself  was  trying  to  do — be  like  other  peo 
ple.  .  .  .  Yes,  Victor  Budge  was  right. 

"Have  some  more  red  ink  ?  Plenty  more  in  George's  cel 
lar. — And  girls,  for  instance.  Now  I  don't  have  any  use  at 
all  for  this — this  eternal  poetizing  about  them!  What's  a 
girl,  after  all?  The  same  kind  of  critter  we  are!  I  don't 
find  'em  mysterious — and  I  don't  go  'round  grouching  about 
'em,  either.  Girls  and  me  have  always  got  along  perfectly 
well.  Because  I  don't  expect  them  to  be  something  else  than 
what  they  are — Helen  of  Troy  and  the  Blessed  Damozel  and 
all  that  sort  of  rot.  I  don't  go  up  to  them  asking,  'Are  you 
my  long-lost  ideal  ?'  They  don't  want  to  be  anybody's  long- 
lost  ideal.  They  want  to  be  taken  for  what  they  are !  Isn't 
it  so?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Felix,  humbly.  .  .  .  Yes,  doubtless 
there  was  something  unrealistic  in  his  attitude  toward  girls — 


An  Adventure  in  Philosophy          87 

something  that  he  must  get  over.  .  .  .  "I'm  afraid  I  don't 
know  very  much  about  girls.  You  may  be  right." 

"Of  course  I'm  right,"  affirmed  Victor  Budge.  "It  stands 
to  reason  that  there  isn't  just  one  girl  in  all  the  world  for  you 
or  me."  Which,  while  perhaps  not  a  logical  sequitur  to 
Victor  Budge's  previous  remarks,  was  precisely  what  Felix 
had  been  trying  to  convince  himself  of.  ... 

"That,"  said  Victor  Budge,  "that  sort  of  silly  nonsense 
in  people's  heads  is  what  makes  them  go  around  making  them 
selves  miserable,  because  they  haven't  yet  found  the  one  and 
only.  I  guess  if  a  man  was  cast  away  on  a  desert  island 
with  a  girl,  he'd  find  she  was  his  one  and  only  quick  enough ! 
Of  course,  if  you're  going  to  have  to  spend  the  rest  of 
your  life  with  her,  you'll  want  somebody  who  knows  what 
you're  talking  about,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing !  But  when 
all  you  want  is  an  evening's  good  time,  what  difference  does 
it  make  to  you  whether  she's  read  the  latest  book  by  Henry 
Tames?  There  are  some  damn  fine  girls  that  couldn't  tell 
Henry  James  from  Jesse  James,  and  you  darn  well  know  it!': 

Yes,  Felix  thought,  books  are  not  the  only  things  worth 
knowing;  there  is  life  itself.  And  he  had  certainly  never 
intended  to  spend  his  days  in  Chicago  without  seeing  any 
thing  of  girls.  To  be  sure,  he  did  not  want  to  fall  in  love 
—and  he  knew  himself  to  be  at  this  period  in  a  dangerously 
susceptible  mood.  But  must  he  be  such  a  fool  as  to  fall 
in  love  with  the  first  girl  he  kissed?  It  was  time  for  him 
to  learn  to  be  like  other  people — to  take  such  things  more 
lightly.  If  he  could  find  the  kind  of  solace  which  Victor's 
words  suggested  .  .  .  and  a  part  of  his  mind  leaped  to 
welcome  the  thought  of  that  release  from  the  torment  of 
loneliness.  He  envisaged  in  fantasy  a  "real"  girl,  ready 
to  put  aside  the  hypocritic  disguises  of  civilization  and  reveal 
herself  as  what  she  was— a  splendid  young  animal  whose 
touch  was  joy.  ...  As  this  warm  vision  flashed  and  faded 
in  his  mind,  he  turned  to  Victor  Budge  and  asked: 

"Where  is  this  party  you're  taking  me  to  tonight?"  For 
the  idea  of  these  Arabian  Nights  come  true  in  Chicago, 


88  The  Briary-Bush 

seemed  a  little  surprising.  ,But  doubtless  there  were  many 
things  that  he  did  not  know. 

"Did  I  say  party?  Well,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said 
Victor  Budge,  not  without  embarrassment.  "It'll  be  a  real 
party,  all  right,  before  we  get  through!  We'll  start  down 
in  Jake's  place,  and  take  in  the  whole  district." 

Felix  flushed  slowly,  a  painful  flush  of  anger  and  shame 
that  seemed  to  spread  all  through  his  body.  Anger  and 
shame  at  his  own  credulity.  Arabian  Nights,  indeed!  He 
laughed,  loudly — at  himself. 

A  picture  came  into  his  mind,  compounded  of  things 
he  had  read,  and  the  brief  glimpses  of  actuality  with  which 
his  curiosity  had  been  satisfied  and  sickened  back  in  Port 
Royal  on  the  Mississippi — of  the  tawdry,  dirty,  dull,  the 
incredibly  dull,  the  joyless,  loveless,  hard,  empty  life  of — 
as  it  was  sometimes  called — joy.  .  .  .  The  stupid  women, 
the  foolish  men,  the  mechanical  noise  and  laughter,  the  boozy 
humour,  the  touch  of  stale,  jaded,  weary  flesh.  .  .  .  And 
this  was  what  Victor  Budge  was  talking  about — this  was 
the  subject  upon  which  he  had  expended  so  much  vulgar 
eloquence!  .  .  .  This,  then,  was  Victor  Budge's  realism. 
This  was  what  he  called  a  real  party;  and  those  were  what 
he  called  "real  girls".  .  .  .  That  was  what  he  meant  by 
taking  things  as  one  found  them,  and  not  bawling  for  the 
moon. 

Victor  Budge  was  staring  at  him.  "What's  eating  you?" 
he  asked. 

Felix  laughed  again.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I've  some  aesthetic 
theories  of  my  own  which  make  it  impossible  for  me  to 
accept  your  invitation.  What's  good  enough  for  other  people 
isn't  good  enough  for  me.  I  don't  want  to  take  life  simply 
and  realistically.  I'm  going  off  to  starve  in  my  garret 
and  write  poems  to  Helen  of  Troy  and  the  Blessed  Damozel !" 


XII.  Bachelor's  Hall 


HE  had  decided  to  write — what,  he  did  not  know  yet : 
and  it  did  not  matter :  something,  anything,  a  play,  a 
poem,  a  story — whatever  came  into  his  head,  good 
or  bad.  It  would  occupy  his  time. 

He  spent  a  happy  evening  buying  the  materials  of  writing 
at  a  stationery  store.  He  bought  a  dozen  penholders,  a 
quantity  of  his  favourite  stub  pens,  two  bottles  of  a  thick 
black  indelible  ink,  half  a  ream  of  good  thin  bond  paper, 
a  great  blotting-pad  and  a  whole  stack  of  small  blotters. 
That  afternoon  he  had  bought  a  copy  of  Roget's  "Thesau 
rus,"  without  which  the  literary  life  is  mere  vexation ;  and 
a  good,  fat,  reliable  little  dictionary  with  "derivations." 
Going  to  his  room,  he  lighted  the  gas,  arranged  these 
materials  on  his  little  table,  gazed  at  them  with  pleasure — and 
realized  that  he  had  forgotten  to  buy  an  eyeshade.  He  went 
back  to  the  stationery  store,  and  returned  with  a  half-dozen 
eyeshades  of  the  best  pattern,  the  kind  that  do  not  saw  the 
ears  or  get  tangled  in  the  hair.  It  appeared  to  him  also  that 
the  gas-light  really  would  not  do;  he  must  get  a  kerosene 
student's  lamp;  it  would  be  a  nuisance  to  keep  it  filled  and 
trimmed,  and  the  chimney  clean — but  the  literary  life  has  its 
inevitable  penalties.  .  .  .  He  would  get  a  student's  lamp 
and  a  gallon  can  of  kerosene  tomorrow. 

He  sat  down  again  at  the  little  table,  fitted  a  stub  pen 
into  his  penholder,  lighted  a  match,  and  held  the  steel  point 
in  the  blaze,  to  burn  off  the  oil  and  take  out  the  temper, 
making  it  soft  and  flexible  and  easy  to  write  with.  He 
uncorked  the  ink,  wiped  out  the  neck  of  the  bottle  with  a 
blotter,  and  dipped  his  pen  in.  Yes,  the  pen  held  a  full 

89 


go  The  Briary-Bush 

sentence's-worth  of  ink,  as  it  should.  There  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  the  pen.  He  took  a  sheaf  of  paper  from  the 
great  pile  on  the  back  of  the  desk,  laid  it  at  the  proper  angle, 
adjusted  his  chair,  dipped  the  pen  again,  poised  it  above  the 
virgin  paper — and  remembered  that  he  had  only  two  ciga 
rettes  left  in  the  box.  One  cannot  do  a  good  night's  writing 
without  plenty  of  cigarettes.  He  went  down  to  the  cigar 
store  and  returned  with  five  boxes. 

Once  more  he  dipped  his  pen,  lifted  it  ... 

An  hour  later  he  rouse"d  himself  from  the  vague  waking 
dream  in  which  his  mind  had  been  immersed.  The  sheet 
of  paper  was  covered  with  lines  and  circles,  stars,  geometrical 
figures,  childish  pictures  of  houses  with  smoke  coming  out 
of  the  chimneys,  illegible  words,  his  own  initials,  and  crude 
attempts  to  draw  the  outline  of  a  girl's  arm ;  and  amidst  all 
this,  carefully  obliterated,  so  that  he  could  hardly  recognize 
it  himself,  the  name — Rose-Ann,  Rose-Ann,  Rose- Ann.  .  .  . 

He  tore  the  sheet  into  tiny  fragments,  brushed  them  to  the 
floor,  and  then  got  dcfwn  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  care 
fully  picked  them  up.  He  must  remember  to  buy  a  waste- 
basket  for  his  room  tomorrow.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It 
was  twelve  o'clock.  He  would  go  in  and  see  Roger  and  Don ; 
if  they  were  staying  up  late,  they  might  offer  him  some 
coffee. 

Roger  was  lying  on  the  couch  reading  Flaubert's  "La 
Tentation  de  la  Saint  Antoine,"  and  Don  was  sitting  in  an 
easy  chair  reading  Flaubert's  "Bouvard  et  Pecuchet." 
They  looked  up,  bade  him  come  in,  and  went  on  calmly  with 
their  reading.  Felix  took  down  a  book  from  the  shelf 
— one  of  the  later  works  of  Henry  James — and  yawned 
over  it.  ...  Perhaps  he  had  better  go  to  bed  after  all. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  stumbling  up  the  stairs,  and 
a  loud  banging  at  the  door. 

"That's  Eddie  Silver,"  said  Roger,  in  a  resigned  tone 

Felix  jumped  up  and  opened  the  door,  and  Eddie  Silver 
entered,  shouting,  "Hello!" — at  the  same  time  playfully 
thrusting  against  Felix's  stomach  an  automatic  revolver  made 
of  tin.  But  Felix  did  not  know  that  it  was  a  toy. 


Bachelor's  Hall  91 

He  stepped  back  hastily,  with  a  queer  feeling  in  the  pit  of 
his  stomach. 

"The  fool's  got  a  revolver !"  said  Roger. 

"Here,  give  me  that,"  said  Don,  going  over  and  trying  to 
snatch  it. 

"Let  him  alone — he's  drunk,"  said  Roger. 

"No— ri0t  drunk!"  protested  Eddie  Silver.  "Don't  say 
I'm  drunk!"  He  tearfully  extended  his  hands  in  pleading, 
with  the  revolver  dangling  from  a  finger.  "But-"  and  he 
beamed  at  them  suddenly — "going  to  get  drunk !  Going- 
He  noticed  the  revolver,  put  it  carefully  in  one  overcoat 
pocket,  and  took  out  of  the  other  a  quart  bottle.  "Get  some 
glasses,  Rojjie!"  And  taking  off  his  overcoat,  with  the 
revolver  still  in  its  pocket,  he  bundled  it  up  and  tossed  it 
over  into  the  corner  of  the  room. 

There  was  a  moment  in  which  everybody — except  Eddie 
— held  himself  tense  in  expectation  of  a  bullet.  Then  Don 
started  across  the  room  toward  the  overcoat. 

"No,  Don— no!— You  le'  tha'  o'co'  'lone.  'S  my  bes' 
o'co' !"  And  then,  very  clearly  enunciated,  "Hurry  up  with 
those  glasses!" 

Felix  followed  Roger  over  behind  the  screen  which  masked 
their  simple  culinary  arrangements.  "We've  got  to  get  him 
drunk  enough  to  get  that  gun  away  from  him,"  whispered 
Roger. 

It  took  another  bottle  of  whiskey,  procured  by  Don  and 
paid  for  by  Felix,  and  four  hours  of  time,  to  kill  Eddie 
Silver's  jealous  watchfulness  of  that  overcoat  in  the  corner. 
Eddie,  with  a  maudlin  efficiency,  divided  his  attention  be 
tween  the  overcoat  and  the  whiskey.  His  conversation  for 
the  last  three  of  the  four  hours  consisted  of  a  promise  to 
tell  them  something.  "Wo'n*  tell  'nybo'  'n  worl'  'cep'  you," 
he  kept  saying. 

It  appeared  to  have  to  do  with  himself  and  some  girl- 
but  whether  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  crime  or  a  joke  they 
could  not  tell,  because  sometimes  he  laughed  and  again  he 
cried  about  it.  But  as  often  as  he  started  to  tell  what  it  was, 
he  became  diverted,  and  told  instead  about  somebody  else  and 


92  The  Briary-Bush 

somebody  else's  girl.     He  confessed  many  follies  that  night, 
but  not  his  own. 

At  three  o'clock,  just  when  he  seemed  to  be  really  on  the 
point  of  making  that  long-delayed  confession,  he  suddenly 
commenced  to  laugh.  "  'Minds  me  Cli'  Bangs !"  he  said. 
"Know  Cli'  Bangs?"  And  becoming  articulate  again  he 
went  on,  "I'll  tell  you  a  funny  story  about  him.  He's  got  a — 
(come  on,  everybody  have  another  little  drink!) — house  out 
in  the  country.  I  te'  you  'bou'  tha'  h-house !" 

And  with  vague  relapses  into  the  muffled  speech  of  drunk 
enness,  and  startling  recoveries  oi  clearness,  but  always  with 
a  thread  of  coherence,  he  told  the  story  of  Clive  Bangs' 
house.  At  times  Roger,  watchfully  listening,  had  to 
serve  as  official  interpreter;  Roger  understood  the  locutions 
of  drunken  speech  as  if  they  were  a  foreign  language  in 
which  he  was  versed.  And  Felix,  half -ashamed  to  listen, 
but  curious,  heard  it  to  the  end. 

It  seemed  that  Clive  had  built — or  rebuilt — that  house  in 
Woods  Point  for  a  girl  he  was  in  love  with  at  the  time, 
years  ago,  five  or  six  or  seven  years  ago.  But,  said  Eddie 
Silver,  he  had  neglected  to  tell  the  girl  that  he  was  in  love 
with  her.  And  so,  about  the  time  the  house  was  finished,  she 
married  somebody  else.  Or  at  least,  became  engaged  to 
some  one  else,  whom  she  eventually  did  marry.  The  point 
of  this  story — to  Eddie  it  was  an  exquisitely  funny  story — 
was  that  Clive  Bangs  had  kept  the  house  a  secret  from 
her,  because  he  wanted  it  to  be  a  surprise.  And  it  was  this 
secrecy  of  his  which  had  convinced  her  that  he  had  another 
sweetheart;  so  that,  in  pique,  she  became  engaged  to  the 
other  man. 

"Cli's  KT  secret!"  said  Eddie  Silver,  infinitely  amused. 
"Do*  pay  to  have  se-secrets.  Tha's  why  I  go'  tell  my  HT 
secret." 

But  again  he  wandered  from  the  point,  much  to  Don's  and 
Roger's  disappointment. 

This  painful  story  about  his  friend  stirred  Felix  deeply 
He  felt  that  it  was  true — true  in  essence,  however  fabricated 
in  detail;  it  seemed  to  him  indecent  to  have  this  stolen 


Bachelor's  Hall  93 

glimpse  into  the  secret  of  Clive  Bangs'  heart — and  yet  he  was 
glad  he  had  heard  the  story.  Yes,  it  must  be  true.  Rose- 
Ann  had  put  it  in  a  phrase:  "Some  girl  has  hurt  him." 
And  this — this  ridiculous  and  pathetic  incident,  too  ridiculous 
ever  to  confess,  a  secret  that  must  be  buried  deep  and  for 
gotten — was  the  reason  for  Clive's  being  what  he  was.  .  .  . 
And  suddenly  Felix  understood  why  that  story  had  moved 
him  so : — for  had  he  not  been  as  ridiculously,  as  pathetically 
hurt,  in  his  own  episode  of  moon-calf-love  back  in  Port 
Royal?  And  was  that  incident,  too,  to  affect  his  whole  life, 
remaining  untold,  unconfessed,  poisoning  his  courage  and 
his  faith? 

He  jumped  up,  went  to  his  room,  altogether  wide  awake, 
and  commenced  to  write — the  story  of  his  folly  in  Port  Royal. 
He  commenced  it  as  a  letter  to  Rose-Ann.  He  did  not 
consider  whether  he  would  ever  dare  to  send  it  to  her.  He 
only  knew  that  it  must  be  written  so. 

An  hour  later  he  paused,  tired  out — and  remembered 
Eddie  Silver's  revolver.  After  all,  that  was  perhaps  a  life- 
and-death  matter,  and  this  wasn't.  He  went  back  to  Don's 
and  Roger's  room.  .  .  .  Eddie  Silver's  confession  was  again 
on  the  point  of  becoming  definite. 

"Tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  Eddie.     "Lis'n!" 

They  leaned  forward  to  hear,  but  Eddie's  head  dropped 
on  his  arms,  and  he  was  asleep. 

"Damn!"  whispered  Roger. 

Felix  slipped  quietly  over  to  the  woolly  heap  in  the  corner 
and  reached  into  one  pocket  and  then  the  other.  He  found 
something  strangely  light  to  the  touch.  He  pulled  it  out 
and  gazed  at  it  angrily.  A  tin  revolver! 

"F'lix!" 

Eddie  suddenly  awake,  was  calling  to  him. 

"Go  ge'  'no'er  boT  Swinburne!" 

Felix  looked  at  his  watch.  If  he  went  to  sleep  now,  he 
would  never  wake  up  in  the  morning  in  time  to  go  to  the 
office.  He  might  as  well  keep  awake  the  rest  of  the  night. 
"Make  some  coffee,"  he  said  to  Roger,  "and  I'll  get  some 
more  whiskey  for  this  crazy  loon." 


94  The  Briary-Bush 


That  sort  of  thing — he  reflected  next  evening,  when  he 
turned  in  immediately  after  dinner — was  not  the  sort  of 
thing  he  had  expected  of  his  Canal  street  home.  He  had 
thought  of  it  as  being  a  quiet  backwater,  out  of  reach  of  the 
tides  of  life.  And  if  Eddie  Silver  was  going  to  come 
there !  .  .  .  He  fell  asleep,  only  to  be  awakened  by  the  cry, 

"F'lix !  Oh  you  F'lix !"  and  a  pounding  on  his  door.  "G' 
up!  We're  having  HT  Swinburne  party!" 

Felix  lighted  a  match.  It  was  one  o'clock.  How  had 
that  madman  got  into  the  house  at  this  hour?  Anyway, 
there  was  no  sleeping1  now.  Besides,  he  had  had  six  hours' 
sleep. 

He  rose  and  dressed,  and  went  into  the  other  room. 
"Make  me  a  little  coffee,  Roger,"  he  pleaded.  .  .  .  And  an 
hour  later  he  managed  to  slip  away,  and  went  back  to  his 
room  and  wrote  feverishly  on  his  letter — the  letter  which 
he  would  never  send — to  Rose-Ann  .  .  .  falling  asleep  with 
his  head  on  the  table,  and  only  waking  in  time  to  get  to  the 
office,  without  breakfast. 

The  third  evening  Eddie  Silver  came  again,  and  this  time 
Felix  felt  himself  too  tired  to  write,  and  drank  whiskey  with 
the  rest.  In  the  morning  he  was  apparently  none  the  worse, 
except  that  he  had  no  appetite  for  anything  except  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  cigarette.  In  the  afternoon,  for  lack  of  sufficient 
sleep,  he  needed  more  coffee.  And  of  course,  the  more 
coffee  one  drank,  the  less  one  seemed  to  need  real  food,  so 
that  dinner,  too,  consisted  exclusively  of  coffee.  And  then 
he  could  not  sleep,  and  sat  up  half  the  night  writing. 
Fortunately,  Eddie  Silver  did  not  come  again  for  a  while,  so 
there  was  a  lull  in  the  fever  of  existence.  But  it  took  days 
to  get  back  to  normal  habits  of  eating  and  sleeping  again. 

And  Felix,  in  the  meantime,  had  commenced,  for  the  sake 
of  companionship  and  good  coffee,  to  take  his  dinners  with 
Don  and  Roger  in  their  room,  taking  his  turn  in  providing 
them.  These  meals  were  of  a  delicatessen  sort,  sometimes 
chosen  betause  the  ingredients  reminded  Don  and  Roger  of 


Bachelor's  Hall  95 

Spain  or  Italy,  and  sometimes  because  they  made  an  interest 
ing  colour  scheme. 

For  a  while  their  evenings  were  quiet.  Felix  would 
labour  upon  that  endless  letter  to  Rose-Ann— who  had  by 
now  come  to  seem  to  him  an  unreal  figure,  an  invention  of 
his  own  fancy;  only  becoming  real  again  for  a  moment,  a 
moment  only,  when  he  saw  on  his  desk  at  the  office  an 
envelope  addressed  to  him  in  her  large  undisciplined  hand 
writing.  Within  that  envelope  would  be  a  friendly  note, 
saying  nothing ;  and  he  would  reply  in  kind. 

One  day  he  dropped  in  at  the  little  Community  Theatre  to 
see  how  things  were  getting  on ;  Rose- Ann  in  her  latest  note 
had  expressed  some  curiosity  about  her  old  class  and  its  new 
teacher.  He  found  old  Mrs.  Perk  there. 

"It's  pretty  bad,"  Mrs.  Perk  whispered.  "They  don't  like 
the  new  one  at  all.  And  they  miss  you,  too."  Which  some 
how  pleased  him  very  much,  even  though  he  suspected  it  to 
be  only  an  old  woman's  flattery. 

"And  how  do  you  like  your  new  place?  You  don't  look 
very  well  fed.  No,  it's  no  use;  men  can't  keep  house  by 
themselves.  You'll  have  to  wait  till  Miss  Rosy  comes  back, 
and  be  taken  care  of  right !" 

"I'm  afraid  Miss  Rosy  will  never  come  back,"  said  Felix. 

"Don't  you  bother  yourself  about  that!— Here,  thread 
this  needle  for  me,  with  your  young  eyes.  .  .  .  Why,  I 
asked  her  for  a  piece  of  the  wedding  cake,  the  very  day  she 
went  away  so  sudden.  She'll  be  back  all  right !" 

So  old  Mrs.  Perk  had  been  joking  with  Rose-Ann,  too— 
about  him.  Felix  wondered  how  she  had  taken  it.  ... 

"No,  your  bachelor  hall  won't  last  much  longer,  I  can 
promise  you  that." 

He  laughed  and  went  away,  amused  at  the  quaint  pseudo- 
wisdom  of  the  old.  She  thought  she  knew  all  about  him 
and  Rose-Ann.  Two  young  things  hopelessly  in  love,  but 
too  shy  to  tell  each  other  so !  And  in  this  situation  the  incon 
veniences  of  bachelor's  hall  would  operate  as  a  dens  ex 
machina,  driving  him  in  despair  and  her  in  pity  into  each 
other's  arms — and  matrimony ! 


96  The  Briary-Bush 

How  simple  it  all  seemed  to  her !  And  how  complex  it  all 
was  in  reality! 

Mrs.  Perk  had  the  old-fashioned-woman's  naive  confidence 
in  the  importance  of  woman's  cooking ;  for  that  matter,  how 
did  she  know  that  Rose- Ann  could  cook?  Most  probably 
she  couldn't!  Girls  like  Rose- Ann  didn't  nowadays.  .  .  . 
And  besides,  how  could  Mrs.  Perk  be  expected  to  under 
stand  the  pleasures  of  a  man  living  alone,  free,  able  to  keep 
what  hours  he  chose — the  sheer  lazy  charm  of  a  masculine 
establishment,  however  inefficient! 

Yes,  Felix  really  enjoyed  this  happy-go-lucky  kind  of 
existence.  As  long  as  there  was  plenty  of  good  coffee,  and 
cigarettes,  nothing  else  mattered  very  much — not  even  Eddie 
Silver. 

He  had  commenced  to  come  again.  At  first  his  visits  were 
welcome  as  a  relief  from  the  monotony  of  Canal  street  life. 
But  he  was  becoming  a  nuisance.  .  .  .  He  would  come  in  at 
all  hours,  but  preferably  when  they  had  just  gone  to  bed — 
pounding  on  the  doors  until  they  awoke  and  let  him  in. 
If  the  hall-door  downstairs  chanced  to  be  locked,  he  would 
stand  in  the  street  and  call  to  them,  and  throw  pebbles — or 
dollars — against  theiir  front  windows.  .  .  .  They  would 
be  drifting  peacefully  into  dreams  when  something  would 
wrench  violently  and  painfully  at  their  attention — they  would 
try  to  ignore  it  and  go  on  dreaming,  but  it  would  come  again, 
determined,  familiar,  insistent — and  they  would  reluctantly 
awake  enough  to  become  conscious  of  a  voice  in  the  street 
calling  out  their  names.  "Don !  Roger !  F'li-i-ix !" 

"It's  that  damned  Eddie  Silver!"  they  would  groan,  and 
finally  somebody,  with  a  brain  aching  for  sleep,  would 
stumble  down  the  stairs  and  let  him  in. 

"Wake  up  there,  F'lix — I  brought  you  nice  liT  boT 
Swinburne!"  he  would  call,  rattling  Felix's  doorknob,  until 
he  rose  and  joined  in  the  festivities. 

So  strong  is  the  power  of  association  that  Felix  came  to 
loathe  the  poetry  of  Swinburne — it  had  the  smell  of  whiskey 
on  it.  ... 

It  was  increasingly  hard  to  keep  awake  in  the  afternoons, 
however  much  he  drugged  himself  with  coffee.  Getting  up 
in  the  morning  became  a  tragedy — his  whole  being  cried  out 


Bachelor's  Hall  97 

for  the  sleep  he  could  not  have.  Sometimes  during  the  day, 
in  the  midst  of  a  story,  his  mind  would  suddenly  go  blank  for 
a  minute.  His  appetite  failed,  and  there  were  pains  in  his 
stomach  that  nothing  but  whiskey  would  relieve.  He  caught 
a  bad  cold,  and  had  a  cough  that  would  not  go  away.  And 
then,  one  morning  in  the  eighth  week  of  his  stay  in  the  Canal 
street  menage,  he  found  himself  too  ill  to  go  to  the  office. 

3 

Roger  and  Don  ministered  to  him  with  hot  coffee,  and 
called  in  a  doctor  who  lived  in  the  same  building.  The 
doctor  had  long  white  locks  that  fell  picturesquely  about  the 
collar  of  his  coat.  He  stuck  a  thermometer  in  Felix's  mouth, 
took  out  his  watch  and  held  Felix's  wrist,  then  shook  his  head 
gravely. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  with  him  ?"  he  asked. 

"We  can't  very  well  take  care  of  him  here,"  said  Don. 

"Any  folks  in  town  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"No." 

"H'm.  How  about  the  County  Hospital?  They'll  look 
after  him  all  right." 

"I  suppose  that  is  the  correct  thing  to  do  with  a  sick 
person,"  said  Roger. 

"H'm.  Yes.  .  .  .  Has  to  be  pretty  serious,  though,  to 
get  him  in." 

"Well,"  asked  Roger,  "how  serious  is,  it  ?" 

"H'm.  Can't  tell  just  yet.  May  be  very  serious — may 
not  be.  Better  not  take  any  chances.  .  .  .  Well,  what  do 
you  want  to  do?  County  Hospital?" 

Roger  and  Don  looked  at  each  other.  Felix  tried  to  get 
the  thermometer  out  of  his  mouth  so  as  to  protest,  but  com 
menced  to  cough  instead. 

"Yes,"  said  Roger,  "County  Hospital." 

"All  right,"  said  the  doctor  cheerfully,  pulling  his  ther 
mometer  out  of  Felix's  mouth  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket 
without  looking  at  it,  "I'll  diagnose  pneumonia.  Where's 
the  telephone?  I'll  call  up  the  hospital  right  away,  and  stay 
here  till  they  come." 


98  The  Briary-Bush 

So  Felix  was  taken  to  the  County  Hospital — first  address 
ing  to  Rose-Ann  a  large  envelope  in  which  he  put  his  long, 
unfinished  letter,  and  giving  it  to  Don  to  mail.  .  .  .  And 
at  the  hospital,  after  the  doctor  got  round  to  him,  the  night 
nurse  told  him  that  there  didn't  seem  to  be  anything  the 
matter  with  him  except  a  bad  cold,  but  the  doctor  thought  he 
ought  to  stay  in  bed  a  week  and  rest  up. 

"He  says  you  need  to  make  up  about  a  month's  sleep,  and 
get  some  of  that  booze  out  of  your  system."  She  grinned  at 
him  sympathetically,  "You  ain't  used  to  it,  are  you?" 

He  rather  wished,  since  he  wasn't  going  to  die  after  all, 
that  he  hadn't  sent  Rose-Ann  that  foolish  letter.  Still — he 
didn't  care.  He  couldn't  care  very  much  about  anything. 
He  was  weak,  and  tired,  and  very  sleepy. 


XIII.  In  Hospital 


THE  ward  in  which  Felix  lay  was  a  great  room  with 
a  hundred  beds  in  it,  only  a  few  feet  apart. 
It  was  a  restful  place,  after  Canal  street.     Even  the 
delirium  of  a  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  was,  after  the 
first  night,  easy  to  disregard.     Those  yells  had  no  relation  to 
Felix's  life;  at  least,  they  were  not  Eddie  Silver's  yells.     He 
did  not  have  to  wake  up  and  join  in  any  painful  festivities 
with  that  man.  ...     In  their  utter  aloofness  from  his  own 
life,  those  yells  seemed  actually  soothing,  and  he  went  to 
sleep  to  their  music  as  to  a  lullaby. 

2 

Every  morning,  at  five  o'clock,  he  was  awakened,  and  a 
cup  was  put  to  his  lips.  It  was  merely  hot  tea  with  milk 
and  sugar  in  it ;  but  Felix  had  never  tasted  any  drink  so  good 
as  this— so  invigorating,  so  life-giving,  so  nourishing.  .  .  . 
A  wonderful  drink!  And  when  he  had  drained  the  last 
drop,  he  sank  back  again  into  a  drowsy  slumber  like  that  of 
childhood. 

It  was  so  good  to  know  that  he  did  not  have  to  get  down  t< 
the  office  at  eight  o'clock.  He  could  just  stay  in  bed  all  day, 
and  sleep,  and  sleep,  and  sleep. 

His  friends  came  .  .  .  bringing  him  messages  from  stil 
other  friends.  He  never  had  any  idea  that  he  had  so  many 
friends  in  Chicago.  He  was  touched  by  their  remembering 
him,  and  caring  about  him.  People  from  the  settlement,  and 
the  boys  from  the  office.  Clive  came  the  first  day,  bringing 
word  that  Mr.  Devoe,  the  managing  editor,  was  anxious 
about  him.  His  pay,  Clive  assured  him,  would  go  on  just 
the  same  while  he  was  sick.  ...  It  seemed  quite  wonder- 

99 


ioo  The  Briary-Bush 

ful.     Felix  had  never  realized  how  good  people  were.  .  .  . 

His  friends  brought  books  for  him  to  read.  Clive  brought 
him  "The  Island  of  Doctor  Moreau,"  which  he  had  long  ago 
promised  to  lend  him.  Paul  came  with  a  slender  volume  en 
titled  "The  Complete  Works  of  Max  Beerbohm."  Roger 
brought  him  "The  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man,"  and  Don 
appeared  with  Dowson's  poems.  Eddie  Silver  did  not  come, 
though  Felix  rather  expected  him  to  bring  a  volume  of  Swin 
burne.  .  .  . 

Very  nice  of  them,  too,  to  think  up  such  exotic  and  sophis 
ticated  books  for  him  to  read — a  tribute,  doubtless,  to  his 
superior  tastes.  But  he  felt,  as  he  glanced  languidly  into 
their  pages,  that  these  were  not  just  the  kind  of  books  a  sick 
person  wants  to  read.  He  wished  somebody  would  bring 
him  the  Saturday  Evening  Post — or  the  Bab  Ballads. 


But  it  was  all  right — he  didn't  want  very  much  to  read, 
anyway.  It  was  pleasanter  to  lie  and  day-dream — or  watch 
the  pretty  head-nurse,  who  was  exactly  like  a  pretty  nurse 
on  the  cover  of  a  magazine — or  think.  He  had  a  lot  of  time 
to  think,  now.  Hours.  Funny,  how  one  never  seemed  to 
get  time  to  think,  outside  of  a  hospital. 

His  thoughts  were  slow  and  long,  reaching  to  places 
where  it  seemed  he  had  not  been  in  thought  for  a  great  while. 
Really,  a  hospital  was  a  fine  place.  People  ought  to  go  there 
once  a  year  for  a  long,  long  week  of  thinking.  These 
thoughts  of  his  own,  for  instance — how  glad  he  was  about 
them!  They  would  make  a  great  difference  in  his  life, 
once  he  got  out  of  the  hospital.  .  .  . 

The  only  trouble  was  that  when  he  did  get  out  of  the 
hospital,  he  never  could  remember  what  any  of  those  thoughts 
were.  .  .  .  They  had  vanished,  leaving  apparently  no  trace 
upon  his  mind.  And  that  seemed  queer,  too.  Thoughts  that 
took  such  hours  upon  hours  to  think,  and  that  seemed  so 
wonderful  at  the  time,  oughtn't  to  disappear  like  that.  .  .  . 

The  only  thought  that  remained  was  a  very  small  and 
insignificant  thought,  not  worthy  of  being  remembered.  It 


In  Hospital  101 

was  not  really  a  thought  at  all,  but  only  a  memory :  it  went 
back  to  the  time  when  he  was  a  little  boy  in  Maple,  and 
there  was  a  syringa  bush  in  front  of  the  house,  growing 
up  to  the  second-story  window;  and  he  would  lean  out  of 
the  window  to  see  the  bird's  nest  in  the  syringa  bush,  and 
smell  the  perfume  of  the  syringa  blossoms;  and  he  would 
watch  the  mother-bird,  sitting  on  her  speckled  eggs  and 
looking  back  at  him  with  bright,  sharp  eyes,  not  at  all  afraid 
of  him.  .  .  .  Out  of  all  those  profound  thoughts,  that  was 
all  he  could  ever  remember. 

4 

On  Saturday  morning,  his  fifth  day  at  the  hospital,  Give 
came,  bringing  Felix  his  pay-envelope  from  the  Chronicle. 

"When  do  you  get  out?"  he  asked. 

"Some  time  today,"  said  Felix.     "The  doctor  has  to  for 
mally  discharge  me,  or  something.     This  afternoon,  I  guess." 

"Well,  come  out  to  my  place  in  Woods  Point,  and  rest  up 
for  a  week  before  you  go  back  to  the  office.  .  .  .  I'll  have 
something  special  for  dinner  tonight  in  your  honour, 
have  a  neighbour  woman  come  in,  you  know,  to  cook  for 
me  whenever  I  dine  at  home;  you  needn't  be  afraid  you'll 
have  to  depend  on  my  culinary  abilities.  All  right?  Good! 
I  must  get  to  the  office  now  and  finish  some  work.  Oh, 
I  forgot,  here's  a  letter  for  you.  Good-bye—see  you  this 
afternoon !" 

The  letter  was  from  Rose-Ann. 

"I  couldn't  write"  it  opened  abruptly,  "till  today.  Mother 
died  Sunday.  There  is  something  very  strange  about  death— 
you  can't  quite  believe  it,  or  adjust  yourself  to  it.  I've  had 
all  sorts  of  queer  feelings  about  it  all.  But  I  know  now  why 
people  go  through  the  ceremonial  of  funerals — it  always 
seemed  to  me  absurd  before.  But  in  some  queer  pagan  way 
it  seems  to  make  up  for  all  one's  ingratitude  to  the  dead— 
for  all  the  things  you've  forgotten,  and  only  remember  when 
it's  too  late.  It  is,  as  people  say,  'all  you  can  do!  And  in 
some  queer  ivay,  it  suffices.  It  enables  you  to  think  of  other 
things  again — to  go  back  to  ordinary  life. 


1O2  The  Briary-Bush 

"I  shan't  have  to  ever  quarrel  with  my  brothers  again 
now — that's  one  of  the  other  things  I  think  of.  I  mean — 
I've  a  tiny  legacy,  enough  at  any  rate  to  make  me  inde 
pendent  of  them  forever.  Father  was  very  nice  to  me — / 
don't  think  I've  ever  told  you  about  my  father;  he's  a  clergy 
man,  and  I  suppose  perhaps  I  didn't  want  to  be  known  as 
a  clergyman's  daughter.  But  he  does  understand  me. 

"Felix,  I  am  worried  about  you.     I  suppose  it's  absurd, 
but  I  keep  thinking  you're  in  trouble  of  some  kind.     And 
your  '  letters  ^  fall  'vtie:  nothing  at  all — except — But  we  will 
talk  about  that  wHen  I  see  you. 
•  *'£m -coming  baf.'k  to  Chicago  as  soon  as  ever  I  can." 


Book  Three 
Woods  Point 


XIV.  Heart  and  Hand 


ROSE-ANN   came  to  the  hospital  that  afternoon— 
when  he  first  saw  her,  she  was  walking  down  the 
aisle  with  the  young  hospital  doctor,  and  he  was 
pointing   casually   in   Felix's   direction.     She   nodded,    said 
something  to  the  doctor,  and  ran  quickly  over  to  Felix's 
bed-side. 

"Are  you  really  all  right,  Felix?"  she  asked,  sitting  down 
on  the  bed  and  taking  both  his  hands. 

He  spoke  without  premeditation:  "Oh,  Rose-Ann,  I'm  so 
glad  you've  come !" 

"Why?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"Because  I  love  you,"  he  said.  It  was  an  immense  relief 
to  have  said  it. 

"Do  you?"  she  said.  "I'm  so  glad."  They  looked  at 
each  other  a  moment,  and  then  she  bent  and  kissed  him  softly. 

They  were  presently  aware  of  the  smiling  doctor  standing 
beside  the  bed.  Rose-Ann  turned  to  him. 

"I  want  to  take  him  away,"  she  said. 

"You're  welcome  to  him,"  said  the  doctor.  "He's 
perfectly  well." 

"Can  he  leave — right  away?" 

"This  moment,  if  you  like." 

"Good.  I'll  go  and  call  a  taxi.  Be  ready  as  soon  as  you 
can,  Felix." 

"But  where  are  we  going,"  Felix  asked.  He  did  not  want 
to  go  back  to  the  settlement,  which  he  felt  that  he  had  in  a 
way  deserted ;  and  he  had  an  idea  that  Rose- Ann  would  not 
let  him  go  back  to  Canal  street. 

1  "I  don't  know.  I  forgot — "  said  Rose-Ann,  sitting  down 
on  the  bed  again  with  a  helpless  air.  Then  she  burst  out 

105 


io6  The  Briary-Bush 

laughing.  "I  was  going  to  take  you  home — I  was  under 
the  impression  for  the  moment  that  we  were  married !" 

"We  can  get  married,"  said  Felix,  uncomfortably,  feeling 
that  an  important  matter  was  being  disposed  of  rather 
cursorily. 

She  laughed  again.  "We  can,  yfes.  And  I'm  afraid 
that  is  what  is  going  to  happen  to  us;  aren't  you,  Felix?" 

The  doctor  smiled  and  left  them. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "It's  an  unfair  advantage  to  take 
of  an  invalid.  But  what  else  can  we  do?" 

"I  only  want  to  be  sure — "  said  Felix. 

"Of  what?" 

"You  read  my  letter,  didn't  you— that  terribly  long  letter, 
about  that  girl  back  in  Iowa.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Well,  you  can  see  from  that — I  mean,  I'm  afraid  you 
will  think  I'm  not  the  sort  of  person  who — " 

"Who  what,  Felix?" 

"Who  makes  a  good  husband.     But,  Rose-Ann — " 

"Oh,  I  know  that,  Felix  dear.  And— I  don't  want  a 
good  husband.  I  want  you." 

"But—"  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  that  was  all  over 
now — that  he  would  try  to  be  all  that  she  wished.  .  .  . 

"I  understand,"  Rose-Ann  was  saying.  "You  told  me 
in  that  letter  that  there  was  something  in  you  that  rebelled 
against  reality.  Irresponsible — unstable — you  used  those 
words.  Too  unstable  for  ordinary  domestic  happiness,'  I 
think  you  said.  Well  .  .  .  who  wants  ordinary  domestic 
happiness  ?" 

"But,"  Felix  said  earnestly,  raising  himself  up  on  one 
elbow,  "a  girl  wants — more  than  an  interesting  lover.  She 
wants  .  .  .  some  certainties  in  her  life.  A  home,  children, 
and  the  promise  of  security  for  them.  I — " 

He  wanted  to  be  brave — to  offer  those  certainties.  But 
it  was  too  rash,  too  bold  a  promise.  How  did  he  know  he 
could  fulfil  it? 

"I'd  have  to  become  very  different,  wouldn't  I?"  he  said 
hesitantly. 


Heart  and  Hand  107 

Rose-Ann  spoke  very  quietly.  "I  don't  want  you  to  be 
different,  Felix.  I'm  not  that  girl  back  in  Iowa.  I'm — me. 
I  don't  want  to  be  supported — I  don't  need  to  be;  I  told 
you  I've  a  tiny  but  sufficient  income  of  my  own  now. 
And  I  don't  want  the  kind  of  home  you  speak  of,  Felix — I 
want  to  go  on  living  my  own  life  outside  the  home.  And 
— I  think,  Felix  .  .  .  that  perhaps  there  are  enough  children 
in  the  world  without — without  vagabonds  and  dreamers 
like  us  taking  on  such — interesting  but  unnecessary — 
responsibilities.  ...  I  really  don't  want  us  to  be  married 
at  all,  Felix;  but  I'm  not  brave  enough  to  dispense  with  the 
— rigmarole.  I  want  you  to  have  your  freedom,  and  I  mine. 
I  don't  ask  any  promises  of  you — any  at  all.  I  know  what 
we  are  like.  Freedom — >for  each  other  and  ourselves — 
that's  what  we  want,  Felix.  Isn't  it?" 


He  pressed  her  hand,  and  remained  silent.  He  had  not 
dreamed  of  this.  .  .  . 

"Isn't  that  what  we  want,  Felix?"  she  asked  softly. 

"I  guess  so,"  he  replied  dully,  looking  away  from  her.  .  .  . 
He  knew  he  ought  to  be  grateful  to  her ;  but  he  was  sad 
rather,  with  the  wish  that  he  had  had  the  courage  to  promise 
rash,  mad,  impossibly  beautiful  things. 

Instead,  he  was  to  give  her — uncertainty,  insecurity.  .  .  . 

Did  she  understand? 

"Do  you  remember,"  he  asked,  staring  outward  as  if 
into  the  darkness,  "what  Garibaldi  offered  his  soldiers? 
'Danger  and  wounds'  " — 

He  paused.  "That  seems  a  queer  sort  of  offer  for  a  man 
to  make  to  the  girl  he  loves,"  he  said  grimly.  "But,  Rose- 
Ann—" 

"I  enlist,"  she  said  softly. 

They  pressed  each  other's  hand,  looking  away  from  each 
other,  silently  each  in  a  separate  world  of  dream.  Then 
she  smiled,  coming  back  a  little  bewildered  to  the  world 
of  immediate  fact.  "I  must  call  that  taxi,"  she  said. 


XV.  Pre-Nuptial 


THE  streets  outside  were  full  of  dirty  melting  snow, 
and  there  was  a- cold  drizzly  rain  falling. 
"We  still  don't  know   where  we  are  going,"   said 
Rose-Ann,  as  they  stood  in  the  doorway,  waiting  for  the 
taxi.     "Isn't  it  amusing?    What  are  we  going  to  tell  the 
driver?" 

"City  Hall,  what  else?"  said  Felix. 

Rose-Ann  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It's  an  abode,  a 
place  of  residence — a  home,  if  you  like — some  place  to 
take  you  besides  Community  House  or  that  dreadful  place 
that  I've  heard  about  on  Canal  Street:  it's  that  I'm  thinking 
of,  rather  than  the  legal  process.  It's  rather  absurd,  isn't 
it,  that  neither  of  us  has  anything  resembling  a  home!  We 
just  are  vagabonds,  that's  a  fact.  .  .  .  And— somehow  I 
don't  want  to  be  married  at  the  City  Hall  and  have  a  fat 
alderman  offer  to  'kiss  the  bride.'  ...  If  you  don't  mind, 
I  want  some  place  to  go  where  we  can  have  a  moment  to 
consider  what  to  do.  After  all,  even  vagabonds  have  their 
self-respect  to  take  care  of !  Let's  not  be  rushed  into  an 
ugly  and  stupid  performance  that  has  no  significance  or 
beauty  for  either  of  us.  I  want  to  have  something  to  say 
about  the  way  I  get  married!  And  if  there  isn't  some  way 
of  getting  married  that's  our  way,  so  that  we  don't  have  to 
feel  like  fools  and  cowards,  why — "  she  finished  in  a  mourn 
ful  voice,  "I  think  I'd  rather  not  be  married  at  all." 

Felix  patted  her  arm  reassuringly.  "That's  all  rignt»" 
he  said.  "I  know  what  we'll  do.  We'll  go  to  dive's  place." 

"Clive  Bangs?    Up  at  Woods  Point?" 

"Yes."  And  he  told  her  of  Clive's  invitation.  "You 
needn't  worry,  it's  not  a  bachelor's  den,  it's  a  real  house, 

108 


Pre-Nuptial  109 

with  all  the  appurtenances  thereto  appertaining,  and  a 
woman  to  come  in  to  do  the  cooking.  And  we'll  be  married 
there.  Clive  will  help  us  arrange  it." 

The  taxi  had  swung  up  beside  the  curb.  Rose-Ann  still 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  said,  "All  right !"  and  climbed  in. 

"Northwestern  station !"  said  Felix  to  the  driver. 

"No!"  said  Rose- Ann.  "To  Community  House  first  I— 
If  I'm  to  be  married,  Felix,  at  least  I  must  change  my  clothes ; 
there's  no  need  for  me  to  be  married  in  this" — and  she 
looked  down  at  the  grey  suit  she  was  wearing.  "I'm  just 
as  I  came  from  the  train." 

"All  right,"  said  Felix.  "But  let's  not  stop  there  long. 
And — i  d0  hope  they  won't  suspect  what  we  are  up  to  ... 
it  will  be  rather  a  give-away,  our  dashing  in  together  and 
out  again!" 

She  laughed.  "You  mean  it  will  look  like  an  elopement? 
Well,  you  can  wait  for  me  in  the  taxi." 

He  waited,  impatiently,  smoking  a  cigarette,  for  what 
seemed  a  long  time.  At  last  she  came,  dressed  now  in  some 
soft  creamy  thing  under  her  grey  cloak,  and  carrying  a 
suitcase. 

"I  think  one  person  suspected  me,"  she  said. 

"Mrs.  Perk?" 

"Yes.  Old  women  think  they  know  so  much,  don't  they  ? 
Why  should  she  imagine—?  just  because  I—!  It's  my  own 
fault,  for  making  a  last  sentimental  visit  to  the  theatre. 
But  I  wanted  to — sort  of — say  good-bye!" 

At  the  station,  Rose-Ann  hesitated  again,  and  urged  Felix 
at  least  to  call  Clive  up  and  tell  him  they  were  coming. 
Felix  refused.  "Let's  make  it  a  surprise,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know!"  Rose- Ann  said,  when  they  were  aboard 
the  train.  "To  tell  the  truth,  I'm  a  little  afraid  of  your 
friend  Clive." 

"Afraid  of  him?" 

"I  mean — I'm  in  awe  of  him,  a  little." 

"Nothing  awe-ful  about  Clive.  He's  a  nice  fellow.  I've 
always  wanted  you  to  meet  him." 

"I  wondered  why  you  kept  us  so  carefully  apart,"  said 


HO  The  Briary-Bush 

Rose-Ann.  "I  thought  perhaps  you  felt  that  I  didn't 
measure  up  to  his  specifications.  Do  you  think  I  will  ?" 

He  laughed  tenderly,  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  very 
sweet,  and,  it  seemed,  very  tired  despite  the  buoyant  vivacity 
that  always  made  her  lovely.  "You  are  wonderful,"  he 
said.  "But,"  and  he  put  his  arm  about  her,  to  the  amusement 
of  two  adolescent  girls  across  the  aisle,  "it  doesn't  make 
any  difference  what  anybody  in  the  world  thinks  about 
you,  except  me !" 

"How  possessive  you  are,  of  a  sudden!"  said  Rose- Ann. 
But  she  relaxed  deep  within  his  caressing  and  protecting 
gesture,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

He  looked  down,  touching  softly  with  his  glance  the 
delicate  surface  of  her  cheek  as  it  slanted  away  from  the 
high  cheek-bones,  and  the  forehead  half  hidden  under  the 
drooping  tangle  of  red  gold  hair.  Yes,  she  was  very  tired, 
and  strangely  enough  he  was  glad  to  have  her  so,  glad  to 
feel  her  restless  and  vivid  life  relax  to  peace  in  the  shelter 
of  his  arm.  She  had  gone  through  a  good  deal  of  late; 
he  thought  of  her  home,  and  of  that  death-bed  from  which 
she  had  come,  and  the  jarring  family  hostilities  only  half- 
repressed  by  the  solemnity  of  that  scene ;  it  was  strange  to 
think  of  her — this  lovely  child  made  for  happiness — emerging 
from  those  troubled  shadows.  .  .  . 

She  was  free  now.  And  he  too  was  free — free  from 
dubieties  and  hesitations,  strange  and  foolish  suspicions  of 
her — free  from  fear.  How  simple  everything  was,  after  all ! 
By  what  strange  ways  they  had  come,  to  find  each  other 
— not  knowing  until  this  last  moment  the  real  meaning  of 
their  lives.  .  .  . 

2 

"It's  beginning  to  snow  again,"  said  Rose-Ann,  rousing 
herself  and  looking  out  of  the  window.  And  then — "What 
have  you  told  Clive  Bangs  about  me?" 

"Not  very  much,"  he  confessed.  "I  suppose  because  of 
Clive's  manner  about  his  own  girls — or  girl,  I  should  say; 
it's  been  a  particular  one  for  a  long  time  now.  He  alludes 


Pre-Nuptial  1 1 1 

to  her,  discusses  her  in  an  impersonal  way,  but  he  has 
never  even  told  me  her  name.  A  queer  sort  of  futile 
secrecy. — Which  reminds  me  of  a  curious  story  about  him." 
And  he  told  her  Eddie  Silver's  drunken  tale  of  the 
building  of  the  house. 

"This  house  we  are  going  to?" 

"Yes — if  the  story's  true." 

"So  that's  why  he  became  a  woman-hater." 

"Perhaps  not  quite  so  bad  as  that.  I  should  say  it  made 
him  a  Utopian." 

"It's  the  same  thing,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "It's  curious," 
she  added,  "how  many  men  nowadays— particularly 
interesting  men — are  afraid  of  women;  afraid  that  being 
really  in  love  will  ruin  their  career,  commercialize  their 
art,  or  something. — Are  you  afraid  of  me,  Felix?" 

"Not  any  more,"  he  laughed. 

"Why,  were  you  ever?" 

"Afraid  you  didn't  really  care  for  me,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  you  were  rather  shy !  But  I  liked  you  for  it.  And 
it  was  just  as  well,  until  I  had  made  up  my  own  mind." 

"How  did  you  come  to  make  up  your  mind?  Why  did 
you  decide  to  marry  me  ?" 

"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"Yes,  tell  me." 

"It  was  partly  your  love-letters— 

"Did  I  write  love-letters  to  you?  I  suppose  I  did — but 
I  tried  awfully  hard  not  to!" 

"Beautiful  love-letters!  And  then — being  at  home:  that 
more  than  anything  else  made  me  realize  that  I  was  in  love 
with  you.  I  had  thought  so  before,  but  then  I  was  sure 
of  it.  And — well,  it  seemed  stupid  not  to  make  something 
of  our  two  lives.  Why  should  we  keep  on  being  afraid  to 
try?  .  .  ." 

"Were  you  afraid,  too,  Rose-Ann?" 

"Yes.  But  I'm  not  any  more.  We're  going  to  be  very 
happy,  and  you're  going  to  be  a  very  great  man  and  write 
wonderful  things.  .  .  ." 

He  stirred  uneasily.     "Don't  put  our  happiness  on  that 


112  The  Briary-Bush 

basis,  please.     Suppose  I   don't  write  wonderful  things!" 

"But  you  will!" 

He  sighed.  "That  makes  me  realize  that  I  am  a  little 
afraid  of  you,  Rose-Ann.  Afraid  you  will  make  me  have 
a  career!" 

"Don't  you  want  a  career?  I  don't  want  you  to  do  any 
thing  you  don't  want  to." 

"That's  just  it.  I'm  afraid  you  are  going  to  make  me  do 
all  the  things  I  do  want  to!  Things  I  would  otherwise 
just  dream  of  doing!" 

"Is  that  prospect  so  terrifying?" 

"Yes,  rather." 

"Poor  dear !"  She  pressed  his  hand  in  hers.  "I  suppose 
I  am  a  terrible  person.  I  can't  do  the  things  I  want  to 
do  myself;  and  so  I'm  going  to  insist  on  your  doing  them 
—is  that  it?" 

"I  have  the  feeling  that  you  expect  a  terrible  lot  from 
me,"  he  said. 

"It's  true — I  do  think  you're  rather  a  wonderful  person." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't !" 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  going  to  be  able  to  help  it,  Felix. 
You'll  have  to  take  me,  enthusiasm  and  all,  my  dear!  For 
I'm  in  love  with  you,  and  I  do  think  you  are  going  to  be  a 
great  man,  and  I  shall  continue  to,  no  matter  how  miserable 
it  makes  you  feel — so  there !  I  won't  marry  a  commonplace 
man,  and  you'll  have  to  agree  to  let  me  think  you  out  of 
the  ordinary,  or  the  marriage  is  off!"  She  tilted  her  chin 
defiantly. 

"All  right,  Rose-Ann,"  he  said.  "You  may  think  me  as 
wonderful  as  you  like,  if  only  you'll  not  say  so  out  loud. 
Praise  upsets  me.  I  thrive  only  on  contumelious  blame! 
So  if  you  want  to  put  me  at  my  ease,  tell  me  something 
bad  about  myself." 

"That's  easy  enough,"  she  said.  "You're  quite  the  shab 
biest-looking  man  that  ever  went  to  his  own  wedding, 
vagabond  or  not.  You  seem  to  have  packed  off  to  the 
hospital  in  your  oldest  shirt — look  at  those  cuffs !" 
Felix  looked  at  them,  and  pulled  down  his  coat-sleeves 


Pre-Nuptial  113 

over  their  frayed  edges.  He  looked  at  his  dusty  shoes, 
and  tucked  them  out  of  sight  under  the  seat. 

"Does  Felix  feel  himself  again?"  she  asked  maliciously. 

"Quite,"  he  said.  "Now  I  know  it's  true  I'm  going  to 
be  married." 


XVI.  dive's  Assistance 


THE  snow  had  fallen  more  and  more  heavily  while 
they  were  on  the  train,  and  the  air  was  crisp  when 
they  emerged  into  the  dusk  at  Woods   Point.     "I 
think  I'm  going  to  like  my  wedding,"  said  Rose-Ann. 

They  found  a  car  at  the  nearest  garage  to  take  them  to 
dive's  place,  some  two  miles  away.  The  driver  halted  at 
the  edge  of  a  steep  ravine  that  cut  down  toward  the  lake. 
He  pointed  over  to  the  gleam  of  a  lighted  window.  "There 
it  is,"  he  said.  "And  here's  the  path.  It  goes  right  along 
the  edge  of  the  ravine,  but  Mr.  Bangs  keeps  it  pretty  clean 
of  snow,  and  there's  a  railing  by  the  worst  places.  I  guess 
you  can  make  it  all  right.  Everybody  seems  to."  He 
backed  the  car  about,  and  left  them. 

Recent  footprints,  not  yet  quite  obliterated,  defined  the 
path  for  them.  They  went  up  toward  the  house,  laughing. 
Rose-Ann  had  urged  him  again  at  the  station  to  call  Clive 
up  and  tell  him  they  were  coming,  and  again  he  had  refused. 
Now,  as  they  edged  the  ravine,  holding  on  to  the  railings 
that  guarded  the  most  precarious  moments  of  the  path, 
they  were  feeling  a  little  foolish  and  very  happy  about 
their  adventure.  It  was  thus,  they  read  plainly  in 
each  other's  eyes,  that  they  should  be  married. 

A  little  out  of  breath  at  the  end  of  the  path,  they  faced 
a  suddenly  opened  door,  and  Clive  standing  there,  laughing 
and  puzzled  as  he  tried  to  make  them  out.  "Felix?"  he 
said.  "And  who  else?" 

"And  Rose-Ann !"  cried  Felix.  "We've  come  to  Woods 
Point  to  be  married!" 

"No !"  cried  Clive,  astonished,  unconsciously  blocking  the 
doorway.  *? 

114 


dive's  Assistance  115 

"Yes!"  said  Felix  gaily. 

Clive  laughed.  "Welcome !"  he  said,  ushering  them  inside. 
"If  I'd  known  you  were  coming,  I'd  have  met  you  at  the 
station  and  guided  you  to  the  house.  You  weren't  afraid 
of  breaking  your  neck?"  And  then,  as  Rose- Ann  emerged 
from  her  snowy  cloak,  he  took  her  hand.  "So  this  is  Rose- 
Ann  !  I'm  delighted.  You  know,  Felix  isn't  very  good 
at  descriptions,  and  I  never  got  the  right  idea  of  you  at  all." 

Felix  felt  vaguely  annoyed.     All  this  was  beside  the  point. 

"I  suppose  we  can  get  married  here,  can't  we?"  he  asked. 

Clive  looked  at  him,  and  then  back  at  Rose-Ann.  "How 
solemn  you  both  are!"  he  said.  "Why,  I  really  believe 
— Felix,  what  is  this  about  getting  married?" 

"That's  what  we've  come  for,"  said  Felix  patiently. 

"You  mean —  '  Clive  appeared  incredulous. 

"I  mean,  married.  Preacher !  License !  Ceremony ! 
Didn't  you  ever  hear  of  anybody  getting  married  before?" 

"Not  really?" 

"Yes,  really.  And  right  away.  Tonight.  Is  your  mind 
capable  of  taking  all  that  in,  or  must  I  spell  it  out  for  you. 
You  seem  dazed." 

This  was  not  exactly  the  reception  he  had  expected  for 
his  news. 

"I'm  more  than  dazed.  I'm  shocked,"  said  Clive.  He 
turned  again  to  Rose-Ann.  "Tell  me — when  did  this — 
when  did  you  children  decide  on  this  rash  deed  ?" 

"This  afternoon,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "It  is  rash,  isn't  it? 
Do  you  really  think  we  shouldn't  ?" 

Felix  made  an  impatient  movement.  What  difference 
did  it  make  what  Clive  IBangs  thought? 

"Come  in  by  the  fire,"  said  Clive.  "You — you  bewilder 
me,  you  two." 

He  put  a  hand,  with  some  kind  of  vague  paternal  ges 
ture,  on  Rose-Ann's  shoulder.  "In  here" — and  he  showed 
them  into  a  room  where  a  coal  fire  glowed  in  an  open 
Franklin  stove.  He  arranged  three  big  chairs.  "Sit  there. 
.  .  .  Bad  weather  outdoors." 

"No,"  said  Rose-Ann,  "it's  beautiful!     It's  snowing.  .  .  ." 


n6  The  Briary-Bush 

"111  get  you  something  warm  to  drink,"  and  Give  left 
them. 

They  sat  there  a  moment,  silent. 

"Do  you — do  you  think — ?"  Rose-Ann  began  in  a 
troubled  voice. 

"I  think  Clive  is  a  little  upset,"  he  said.     "Poor  devil!" 

"You  don't — ?"     She  stopped  again. 

"What?"  he  asked  dreamily,  reaching  out  and  finding 
her  fingers  as  they  drooped  over  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"Nothing,"  she  said. 

Presently  he  looked  up,  and  met  her  eyes.  A  look  he 
had  never  seen  before  glowed  in  them,  and  it  was  as  if  she 
had  shown  him  some  secret  part  of  herself  always  hidden 
before.  That  look  seemed  to  reveal  to  him,  as  if  for  the 
first  time,  dazzlingly,  by  the  real  truth  of  their  love.  It  was 
as  if  everything  they  had  said  to  each  other  had  been  in 
some  way  false  and  evasive.  This  was  the  truth — this 
ultimate  surrender,  this  faith-beyond-reason,  this  something 
deeper  than  pride  and  joy  in  her  eyes.  He  was  strangely 
exalted.  He  thought:  "This — this — is  marriage.  .  .  ." 

In  an  instant  the  revelation  had  passed.  Rose-Ann  bent 
down  swiftly  to  shake  out  a  fold  in  her  skirt — and  to  hide 
that  revealing  look,  it  seemed.  Clive  was  at  the  door,  coming 
in  with  their  hot  drinks. 

"And  now,"  said  Clive,  settling  down  comfortably  in  the 
third  big  chair,  "tell  me  about  it." 


Rose-Ann  looked  at  Felix. 

"We're  going  to  be  married,  that's  all,"  said  Felix. 

"Yes,"  said  Clive  reflectively,  "people  do." 

"You  think  we  oughtn't  to?"  asked  Rose- Ann. 

Clive  rubbed  his  chin.  "I  really  think  it  is  my  duty  to 
make  one  last,  however  futile,  attempt  to  dissuade  you !" 

"Why?"  asked  Felix. 

"Because,"  said  Clive  smiling,  "you  are  so  obviously  in 
love  with  each  other  now — so  obviously  happy,  just  as  you 


dive's  Assistance  117 

"And  you  think  marriage  will  spoil  that?"  Rose-Ann 
asked. 

Clive  regarded  them.  "Well,"  he  said,  "how  many  people 
do  you  know  whose  marital  happiness  you  would  be  willing 
to  take  as  your  own?" 

They  were  silent,  Felix  annoyed. 

"I  don't  know  anybody  whose  happiness  /  would  want," 
said  Rose-Ann  at  last.  "But—" 

"But  you  hope  to  have  something  different,  and  very  much 
better,"  said  Clive  gently,  as  if  speaking  to  a  child. 

"I  suppose  it's  foolish,"  said  Rose-Ann. 

"I  don't  see  anything  foolish  about  it,"  said  Felix  defiantly. 
"What's  your  objection  to  marriage?" 

Clive  turned  upon  him  with  mild  surprise.  "Is  this  the 
young  man  with  whom  I  have  had  a  number  of  luncheon 
discussions— in  which,  if  I  remember  rightly,  you  spoke 
eloquently  on  this  same  subject?" 

Rose-Ann  turned  to  Felix  inquiringly.  "I  don't  think 
you've  ever  told  me  your  views  of  marriage,  Felix,"  she 
said. 

Clive  laughed.  "That  is  what  is  known  in  fiction  as  a 
sardonic  laugh,"  he  observed.  "I  trust  you  recognized  it. 
I  will  repeat  it  for  you:  Ha,  ha!  Now,  Mr.  Fay,  is  your 
opportunity  to  explain  to  your  prospective  bride  your  views 
of  marriage." 

Felix  flushed.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  Rose-Ann  and  I 
have  discussed  them,"  he  said. 

"  'Relic  of  barbarism,'  "  quoted  Clive  with  gentle  malice. 

"Of  barbarism?"  Rose-Ann  repeated,  puzzled. 

"Clive  and  I  have  the  habit  of  orating  to  each  other  on 
these  subjects,"  said  Felix,  "at  lunch  and  whenever  we 
haven't  anything  better  to  do." 

"I've  heard  of  those  luncheon  discussions,"  said  Rose-Ann, 
"and  wished  I  could  have  been  present.  I'd  like  to  hear 
you,"  she  said,  looking  at  Clive  and  then  back  to  Felix.  It 
was,  subtly,  her  defiance  to  Clive. 

"Our  discussions,"  said  Felix,  "are  devastatingly  theoreti 
cal.  We  are  accustomed  to  refer  to  everything  we  don't  like 


ii8  The  Briary-Bush 

as  a  relic  of  barbarism.  Marriage,  for  instance.  .  .  .  It's 
essentially  an  intrusion  by  the  Elders  of  the  Tribe  into  the 
private  affairs  of  the  young.  The  Old  People  always  think 
they  know  what  is  best.  Originally,  of  course,  their  power 
to  rule  the  lives  of  the  young  was  far  greater.  Rose- Ann 
and  I  wouldn't  have  been  allowed  to  select  a  mate  for  our 
selves.  The  choice  would  be  made  for  us  by  the  Elders; 
in  their  infinite  wisdom  they  would  choose  for  her  a  lord  and 
master,  and  she  would  settle  down  at  once  to  her  proper 
womanly  business  of  cooking  his  meals  and  bringing  up  his 
babies.  Me  they  would  doubtless  have  mated  with 
some  possessive  young  hussy  who  would  efficiently  smother 
and  drug  to  sleep  with  her  own  physical  charms  any  desire 
of  mine  for  an  impersonal  intellectual  life.  And  thus  we 
would  both  have  been  made  safe  and  harmless — Rose-Ann 
with  her  cooking  and  babies,  and  I  with  my  harem  of  one. 
Both  of  us  tied  down  body  and  soul,  and  thus  presenting  no 
menace  to  established  institutions!" 

He  was  speaking  quickly,  with  a  feeling  that  it  was  all 
very  absurd,  this  speech-making  at  large  upon  a  subject  which 
interested  them  now  only  in  its  specific  and  unique  aspects. 
"But  times  have  changed,"  he  went  on.  "This  form  of 
tribal  control  now  exists  only  as  a  rudimentary  survival — 
a  custom  to  which  one  must  superficially  conform,  and 
nothing  more.  So  long  as  Rose-Ann  and  I  are  allowed  to 
choose  each  other,  and  decide  for  ourselves  how  we  are 
going  to  live,  we  can  very  well  permit  the  Tribe  to  come  in, 
in  the  person  of  its  official  representative,  for  ten  minutes, 
and  ratify  our  choice!  .  .  .  There,  those  are  my  views,  ex 
pressed  in  the  uncouth  intellectual  dialect  which  Clive  and  I 
affect  in  these  discussions.  That's  just  the  way  we  talk." 

"Very  clever,"  said  Clive.  "You  shift  your  ground 
easily.  .  .  ." 

"A  wedding  is  an  awfully  tribal  thing,  isn't  it?"  said  Rose- 
Ann  soberly.  "Especially,"  she  added  more  cheerfully,  "the 
old-fashioned  kind.  With  the  families  and  all.  And  the 
usher  asking  you  which  side  you  are  on,  the  bride's  or  the 
groom's!  I  went  to  one  when  I  was  back  in  Springfield/* 


dive's  Assistance  119 

"I  went  to  one,"  said  Clive,  "once  upon  a  time,  in 
Chicago.  ...  I  had  a  sense  of  the  girl's  having  been  re 
captured  by  her  family,  after  a  temporary  escape — re 
captured  and  subdued.  In  her  white  veil,  at  her  father's 
side,  coming  down  the  aisle,  she  vwas  so  unlike  the  free  wild 
thing  I  had  known. — Somehow  it  seemed  like  a  funeral  to 
me — a  triumphant  and  solemn  burial  of  her  individuality. 
I  remember  that  I  went  away  from  church  saying  over  to 
myself  that  little  poem  of  Victor  Plarr's,  that  ironic  little 
funeral  poem — do  you  know  it?  It  begins — 

"Stand   not   uttering "  sedately 
Trite,  oblivious  praise  above  her — 
Rather  say  you  saw  her  lately 
Lightly  kissing  her  last  lover!" 

They  laughed,  interrupting  Clive  as  he  began  on  the 
next  stanza,  and  then  they  stopped,  waiting  for  him  to  go 
on.  They  exchanged  a  swift  glance,  wondering  if  this  was 
the  girl  of  the  story  they  had  heard. 

"I  forget  just  how  it  goes,"  he  said  confusedly.  "But 
it  ends  something  like  this — 

"She  is  dead:  it  were  a  pity 
To  o'erpraise  her,  or  to  flout  her. 
She  was  wild  and  sweet  and  witty — 
Let's  not  say  dull  things  about  her" 

Having  finished,  he  began  to  poke  the  fire. 

"A  lovely  poem,"  said  Rose-Ann  softly. 

"But,"  said  Felix  vigorously,  "it  doesn't  discourage  me  a 
bit.  I  think  Rose-Ann  can  be  just  as  wild  and  sweet  and 
witty  after  marriage  as  before.  Her  individuality,  if  that 
is  what  you're  worrying  about,  is  not  in  the  least  danger  of 
being  buried  by  marriage." 

Clive  turned  to  her.  "You  aren't  afraid  the  Tribe  will 
get  you  at  last?"  he  asked.  "That  would  be  too  bad." 

She  flushed,  as  at  a  compliment.  "This  marriage  will  be 
one  final  defiance  and  farewell  to  the  particular  tribe  to 
which  I  belong,"  she  said.  "No,  I — I  guess  I'm  not  afraid. 
What  do  you  think,  Felix?" 


120  The  Briary-Bush 

"Bring  on  the  Tribal  Ceremony !"  said  Felix. 

"Well,"  said  Give,  "I've  done  my  duty.  .  .  .  And  now 
I'll  see  about  getting  you  married." 

Felix  sighed  with  relief,  and  reflected  that  it  was  about 
time  Clive  began  to  take  the  occasion  seriously. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Clive,  "that  it  hasn't  occurred  to  you  that 
this  is  Saturday  afternoon,  and  the  county  clerk's  office  is 
closed.  And  you  can't  be  married  without  a  license." 

Felix  looked  his  chagrin.  Of  course,  he  would  have 
forgotten  something  essential !  He  glanced  sheepishly  at 
Rose-Ann,  who  seemed  merely  amused.  But  why  must  he 
be,  always,  and  even  in  his  getting  married,  a  moon-calf? 

"However,"  said  Clive,  suddenly  transformed  into  the 
efficient  and  practical  personage  that  Felix  had  so  often 
admired,  "I  think  it  can  be  fixed  up!  I'll  telephone  my 
friend  Judge  Peabody.  And — "  he  paused  for  a  moment  and 
frowned — "we'll  need  another  witness.  I'll  fix  that  up,  too." 

"I'm  sorry  I  forgot  about  the  license,"  said  Felix  as  Clive 
briskly  left  the  room. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  forgot,  too.  It  makes  no 
difference." 

Clive  came  back  in  a  few  minutes.  "It's  all  right!"  he 
said.  "Judge  Peabody  says  the  city  council  is  in  session  to 
night  at  Waukegan,  and  the  county  clerk  will  be  there. 
Judge  Peabody  will  'phone  up  there  and  tell  the  clerk  you're 
coming.  You'll  go  there  at  eight  o'clock,  right  after  dinner. 
I've  arranged  for  a  car  to  take  you — it's  only  a  few  miles 
further  on.  Judge  Peabody  will  be  here  at  nine,  and 
perform  the  ceremony.  The  other  witness  is  on  the  way 
here,  to  join  us  at  dinner.  And  Mrs.  Cowan  says  the 
dinner  will  be  ready  on  time.  How  is  that  for  manage 
ment?" 

"You  with  your  objections  to  marriage !"  said  Rose- Ann, 
laughing.  "You're  a  fraud!" 

"No,"  said  Clive.     "Merely  a  born  compromiser !" 


XVII.  Charivari 


IT  appeared  that  Mrs.  Cowan,  the  plump  neighbour  who 
was  cooking  dive's  dinner,  had  heard  his  telephonic 
arrangements  for  a  wedding,  and  was,  according  to 
Clive,  much  flustered.  A  few  minutes  later  she  disappeared 
from  the  kitchen,  with  a  brief  warning  to  Clive  to  keep  his 
eye  on  the  oven,  and  presently  returned,  breathless  and 
sparkling-eyed,  wearing  her  Sunday  shawl,  and  bearing  one 
of  her  own  cakes. 

"We'll  give  them  the  best  wedding  we  can,  Mr.  Bangs !" 
she  said. 

Clive  came  in  to  report  this  speech,  and  thus  reminded 
that  Mrs.  Cowan  was  a  human  being,  and  a  woman,  with  a 
prescriptive  right  to  share  in  this  occasion,  he  took  the  bridal 
pair  to  the  kitchen  and  introduced  them.  Mrs.  Cowan's 
warm  friendliness  pleased  as  well  as  embarrassed  them. 
Rose-Ann  exclaimed  over  the  cake,  and  putting  on  an  apron, 
commenced  to  help  with  the  last  stages  of  dinner. 

Clive  and  Felix  wandered  back  to  the  Franklin  stove. 
"Oh,  yes,"  said  Clive.  "I  must  build  a  fire  in  your  room. 
Come  along/'  and  he  set  Felix  to  chopping  kindling  in  the 
woodshed  while  he  carried  up  a  load  of  cannel  coal.  Felix 
followed  him  to  the  great  room  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  oc 
cupying  almost  the  whole  of  the  upstairs  space,  with  a  fire 
place  at  one  end.  "I  built  that  fireplace  myself  when  I  had 
the  house  remodeled,"  said  Clive.  "It's  quite  an  art,  build 
ing  a  fireplace  so  that  it  will  draw  properly.  I'm  very 
proud  of  it." 

Felix  knelt  and  stuffed  the  kindling  into  the  grate.  "No," 
said  Clive,  "let  me  do  it — you  don't  know  how." 

While  they  waited  for  the  kindling  to  get  well  ablaze 

121 


122  The  Briary-Bush 

before  putting  on  the  coal,  Clive  took  Felix  to  a  French 
window  that  opened  on  a  balcony.  "Here  you  have  a  view 
of  the  lake,"  he  said,  and  then  going  to  one  end  of  the 
balcony,  "these  steps  lead  down  to  my  shower-bath,  which 
unfortunately  only  functions  in  summer.  You  must  come 
out  here  then — you'll  like  it.  It's  really  wonderful  country. 
I  love  it  even  in  the  winter.  I'll  tell  you :  Why  don't  you 
and  Rose- Ann  stay  out  here  this  week?  I've  got  to  be  in 
town  next  week  anyway,  and  I'll  clear  out  tonight  when  the 
fuss  is  all  over  and  leave  you  to  yourselves.  Everything  is 
shipshape,  and  Rose-Ann  will  have  no  difficulty  in  finding 
where  things  are — and  I'll  .arrange  with  Mrs.  Cowan  to  get 
your  dinners.  You  haven't  a  place  in  town  yet,  have  you  ?" 

Felix  thanked  him,  with  the  sense  that  the  dedication  of 
this  house  to  another  honeymoon  than  the  one  for  which  it 
was  originally  intended  gave  Clive  a  kind  of  painful  and 
ironic  pleasure.  But  there  seemed  to  be  no  good  reason 
for  refusing  the  offer. 

"Do  you  suppose  my  job  will  still  be  open  for  me  when  I 
come  back  married?"  he  asked. 

"Not  merely  that,  but  you'll  probably  get  a  raise,"  said 
Clive.  "That's  the  custom.  They  figure  that  a  young  man 
who  has  married  and  settled  down  will  be  a  more  faithful 
slave.  Usually  they're  right.  Only  in  this  case,  taking 
Rose-Ann  into  consideration,  I  would  say  that  'settling 
down'  wasn't  the  correct  term." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  Rose-Ann  is  much  more  likely  to  keep. you 
in  mischief  than  to  keep  you  out  of  it.  You  know  that." 

"You've  got  a  funny  idea  of  Rose-Ann,"  said  Felix. 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  You  know  yourself  she's  not  the  ordinary 
girl  by  any  means.  And  she  won't  make  an  ordinary 
wife — for  which  you  can  be  thankful." 

He  put  the  coal  on  the  fire,  set  up  the  fire-screen  in  front 
of  the  fireplace,  and  they  went  downstairs. 

"You  needn't  eye  me  like  the  basilisk,"  said  Clive,  taking 
a  cigarette,  "I'm  not  saying  anything  against  your  beloved." 

"All  the  same,  I  think  you've  got  some  kind  of  curious 


Charivari  123 

and  erroneous  notion  about  her.  She's  not  interested  in 
these  damned  theories  of  ours.  She's  a  real  person,"  Felix 
protested. 

"She's  real,  all  right,"  said  Clive.  "But  she's  not  a  simple 
person.  She's  very  complex.  I  think  she's  just  as  com 
plicated — as  mixed  up — as  you  or  I." 

"Heaven  forbid !"  said  Felix. 

Rose-Ann  came  in  just  then,  and  Felix  looked  at  her 
guiltily,  ashamed  of  discussing  her  with  his  friend. 

"Things  are  getting  along  very  well,"  she  said.  "I  just 
ran  in  for  a  moment  to  see  my  lover."  She  came  up  to  him, 
with  a  shy  frankness,  to  be  kissed.  "That  ought  to  show 
Clive  what  sort  of  a  person  she  is !"  he  thought. 

She  turned  from  his  embrace  to  Clive.  "It's  curious," 
she  said,  "the  pleasure  people  take  in  other  people's  wed 
dings !  There's  Mrs.  Cowan — she  doesn't  know  me  and 
Felix.  She  hasn't  any  reason  to  believe  we  are  going  to  be 
happy.  It's  just  because  it's  a  wedding!  I  was  thinking 
about  it,  and  I  realized  that  if  this  were  a  secret  love-affair, 
she  would  be  shut  out  of  it.  But  a  wedding  lets  her  in.  In 
a  way,  it's  really  more  her  wedding  than  it  is  ours !" 

"Well,"  said  Felix,  "I  don't  mind !  I  haven't  that  damn 
able  instinct  of  privacy  that  some  people  seem  to  regard  as 
essential  to  love-affairs.  I'd  as  soon  the  whole  world  knew 
we're  in  love." 

"All  right,  Felix— but  you  haven't  had  to  discuss  the 
nuptial  couch  with  her,  and  /  have!  She's  upstairs  now 
getting  the  room  fixed  up,  and  putting  my  clothes  in  the 
bureau ;  I  left  her  to  avoid  an  argument  about  which  night 
gown  I  should  wear — as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  doesn't  think 
any  of  them  are  equal  to  the  occasion,  they're  all  too  plain ! 
Perhaps  you'd  as  soon  everybody  knew  all  about  those 
details,  which  is  what  a  wedding  seems  to  amount  to — but 
I  don't  like  it !"  And  she  made  a  face  and  left  the  room. 

"Well?"  said  Clive,  rather  triumphantly.- 

"Well  ?"  said  Felix,  stolidly.  He  really  had  not  liked  that 
last  speech  of  Rose-Ann's.  If  she  didn't  want  her  night 
gowns  discussed  in  public,  then  why — ? 


124  The  Briary-Bush 

"You're  really  rather  conventional,  at  the  bottom  of  your 
soul,  aren't  you?"  Give  remarked  thoughtfully. 

"Of  course  I  am.  And  so  is  everybody  else.  So  are  you, 
if  you  only  knew  it." 

"Then,"  said  Clive,  coolly,  "why  do  you  marry  Rose- Ann  ? 
She  isn't.  It  you  want  a  conventional  wife  and  conventional 
married  happiness,  why  don't  you  marry  some  simple  little 
country  girl,  and  have  a  houseful  of  babies?  Why — " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"That's  my  other  witness,"  said  Clive,  and  hurried  into 
the  hall. 


While  Clive  and  the  newcomer  talked  for  a  moment  in 
the  hall,  Felix  stood  frowning  at  the  fire.  .  .  .  Clive,  he 
felt,  was  becoming  rather  exasperating.  Really,  the  un 
questioning  enthusiasm  of  Mrs.  Cowan  was  preferable  to 
such  an  inappropriately  critical  attitude  as  Clive's.  There 
was  something  deliberately  malicious  in  it.  That  last  remark 
about  the  "simple  little  country  girl"  was  an  attempt  to 
shake  his  faith  in  this  marriage.  It  was  a  damned  mean 
trick!  .  .  .  And  then  he  laughed  at  himself.  For  how 
could  Clive  possibly  have  guessed  the  effect  of  that  remark? 
How  could  he  know  what  a  crazy  fool  he  was  talking  to? 
"A  simple  country  girl."  How  could  Clive  know  that  there 
lurked  in  the  back  of  Felix's  mind  an  absurd  and  im 
possible  wish — a  wish,  long- forgotten,  except  in  the  most 
senseless  of  idle  day-dreams,  which  these  words  of  Clive's 
made  him  remember,  with  an  inexplicable  pang!  A  wish 
for  precisely  what  he  ought  never  to  have — .  Marriage 
with  the  girl  of  that  foolish  day-dream  would  be,  for  such 
a  person  as  himself,  the  most  fantastic  of  tragedies:  and 
it  was  doubtless  its  very  impossibility  that  had  made  him 
conceive  it  as  a  romantic  ideal.  And  that  houseful  of 
babies — for  they  too  were  a  part  of  that  foolish  day-dream 
of  his — why,  that  was  madness.  In  actuality,  he  would 
have  fled  from  the  prospect  of  such  a  marriage.  He  really 
wanted — what  he  had  so  miraculously  found  in  Rose- 


Charivari  125 

Ann:  a  companionship  in  the  adventure  and  beauty  of 
life.  .  .  .  And  in  an  hour  or  two  his  choice  would  be 
confirmed — irrevocably.  Marriage  was  just  that — a  definite 
decision  among  tangled  and  contradictory  wishes.  .  .  . 

He  turned  to  face  the  girl  whom  Clive  had  led  into  the 
room.  For  an  instant  he  was  startled  as  by  an  apparition. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  effect  of  Give's  words — this  young 
woman  seemed  the  very  creature  of  his  day-dreaming  wish. 
Young,  hardly  more  than  nineteen,  of  slight  but  robust 
figure,  with  soft  brown  hair,  dark  quiet  eyes  and  a  serene 
mouth,  she  brought  with  her  the  fragrance  of  that  fantasy 
which  had  only  a  moment  ago  disquieted  him.  She  had 
a  bundle  in  her  arms,  and  for  an  instant  the  illusion  was 
breathlessly  complete — she  was  Rose-Ann's  phantom  rival 
come  to  him  in  visible  sweet  flesh,  bearing  his  baby  at 
her  bosom. 

"The  bridegroom!"  Give  was  saying.  "The  witness!— 
Miss  Phyllis  Nelson,  Mr.  Felix  Fay." 

She  smiled  imperturbably  and  held  out  her  hand,  her 
eyes  meeting  his. 

"And  what  have  you  in  that  bundle,  Phyllis  ?  Something 
without  which  no  wedding  would  be  complete,  I  suppose," 
said  Clive. 

"Only  some  smilax,"  she  said.  "And  I  know  how  many 
knives  and  forks  you  have,  Clive,  so  I  brought  along  some 
of  my  mother's  silver.  But  where  is — 

Rose- Ann  ran  in  just  then,  and  the  two  girls,  while  Clive 
pronounced  their  names,  shook  hands,  and  then  suddenly 
kissed  each  other,  and  with  arms  linked  went  out  into  the 
kitchen. 

Clive  followed  with  the  bundle,  asking  Phyllis  if  by  any 
chance  it  contained  a  veil  for  the  bride.  He  and  Felix 
were  shooed  back  into  the  other  room,  and  Rose-Ann  and 
Phyllis  reset  the  table.  The  three  women  could  be  heard 
talking  together,  with  a  kind  of  excited  seriousness,  as 
they  worked.  Felix's  last  glimpse  was  of  Phyllis  arranging 
wreaths  of  smilax  on  the  white  tablecloth,  and  Rose-Ann, 
with  an  adorable  gesture,  lifting  her  arms  to  twine  some  of 


126  The  Briary-Bush 

it  about  the  low-hanging  chandelier,  while  Mrs.  Cowan, 
her  hands  on  her  hips,  stood  looking  from  one  to  the 
other  with  approval  before  dashing  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"Womenfolk  have  an  instinct  for  such  things,"  said 
Clive,  sitting  down  beside  the  fire.  "Even  Rose-Ann 
appears  domestic." 

Felix  looked  at  Clive  fretfully.  "I  don't  see  anything 
terribly  domestic  about  hanging  up  a  wreath  of  flowers." 

"You  are  hard  to  suit,"  Clive  commented.  "When  I 
say  she  isn't  domestic,  you  look  daggers  at  me,  and  when  I 
say  she  is,  you  still  object.  What  shall  I  say?  I  strive 
to  please." 

"So  it  seems,"  said  Felix. 

Clive  smiled.  "Since  you're  so  conventional,  you  ought 
not  to  complain.  Nothing  is  more  regular  and  old-fashioned 
than  the  effort  to  embarrass  a  bridegroom.  You  may 
interpret  my  remarks  as  a  modern  version  of  that  ancient 
mode  of  licensed  tribal  merriment — an  intellectualized  kind 
of  'shivaree.'  I  am  trying  to  make  up  for  the  absence  of 
the  traditional  tin  pans  out  by  the  front  gate.  After  all, 
Felix,  you  are  taking  Rose-Ann  away  from  all  the  rest  of 
us,  and  you  must  expect  to  be  made  to  suffer  a  little  for 
your  selfishness." 

"Dinner !"  Phyllis  called  in  to  them. 

They  went  into  the  dining-room. 


In  the  middle  of  the  table  was  a  glass  bowl  brimmed  with 
sweet  peas,  and  around  it  a  wreath  of  smilax ;  a  festoon 
of  smilax  hung  from  the  chandelier.  At  the  head  of  the 
table  stood  impressively  a  platter  bearing  a  steaming  roast 
duck. 

Mrs.  Cowan  hovered  proudly  over  this  spectacle,  preparing 
to  take  her  departure. 

"Oh,  not  without  a  piece  of  the  wedding-cake!"  cried 
Rose-Ann,  and  cut  it  for  her. 

Immensely  gratified,  and  having  wished  the  bride  happiness, 
and  at  the  last  moment  bestowed  upon  her  a  motherly  kiss; 


Charivari  127 

Mrs.    Cowan   went,   bearing-  the   piece   of   cake   carefully 
wrapped  in  a  napkin. 

Clive  stared  after  her.  "Very  interesting,"  he  said,  "she 
takes  home  a  piece  of  her  own  cake — 

"No  longer  her  own,"  Rose-Ann  finished,  "and  no  longer 
merely  cake — but  a  piece  of  Wedding  Cake!  Will  she  put 
it  under  her  pillow,  I  wonder,  and  dream  of  getting  another 
husband?  She's  a  widow,  and  her  husband  used  to  get 
drunk  'something  awful/  Yes,  she  was  telling  me  all 
about  it— I  think  by  way  of  warning,  so  I  wouldn't 
be  too  badly  disillusioned  by  the  facts  of  marriage.  'You 
can't  expect  'em  to  be  angels/  she  said.  So  you  see, 
Felix,  I'm  prepared  for  anything!" 

This  speech  jarred  upon  Felix.  It  was  too  much  in 
the  vein  that  Clive  had  been  indulging  all  evening.  He 
wondered  if  he  were  going  to  become  critical  of  Rose- Ann, 
now  that  he  had  a  sense  of  possession  with  regard  to  her. 
He  said  to  himself  that  Rose-Ann  was  over-wrought  and 
he  himself  over-sensitive. 

"Rose-Ann,  here  at  my  right  hand,"  Clive  was  saying, 
"Felix,  here  at  my  left.  I  believe  that  is  correct.  The 
Witness  will  take  the  remaining  seat,  opposite  me.  First 
of  all,  we  must  have  a  toast."  He  rose.  "Up  with  you 
all!  No,  Rose-Ann,  you  sit  still— you  can't  drink  your 
own  health.  .  .  .  Here's  to  the  bride!" 

They  lifted  their  glasses. 

"No— wait  till  I  finish  my  speech.  ...  In  defiance  of 
all  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  modern  realistic  fiction,  we 
wish  her  happiness!  ...  No,  that-  isn't  all  I  have  to 
say.  ...  We  make  this  wish— at  least  I  do— with  an 
unwonted  confidence  in  its  fulfilment.  For  this  is  no 
ordinary  marriage,  dedicated  to  the  prosaic  comforts  of  a 
mutual  bondage — it  is  an  attempt  to  realize  the  sharp  new 
joys  of  freedom.  A  marriage,  let  us  say,  in  name  only— 
for  upon  Rose-Ann  I  set  my  faith,  believing  that  not  even 
a  wedding  can  turn  her  into  a  wife!"  Rose-Ann  looked 
up  at  him  and  smiled.  "To  Rose-Ann,"  he  concluded, 
"and  her  adventure !" 


128  The  Briary-Bush 

They  drank.  Felix  looked  at  the  others.  He  had)  a 
sense  of  something  having  been  outraged  by  this  speech 
— something  which,  if  only  a  tradition,  was  somehow  real 
to  all  of  them  except  Clive.  But  Rose-Ann  merely  looked 
amused,  and  Phyllis's  expression  told  him  nothing.  He 
reflected,  "She's  used  to  him  by  this  time." 

A  sense  of  embarrassment  remained  with  him,  in  spite 
of  the  light  talk  that  followed  as  Clive  heaped  their  plates 
in  turn  with  roast  duck  and  dressing. 

"Why  are  you  so  quiet,  Felix?"  Clive  asked  at  last. 
"You  might  at  least  tell  us  how  it  feels  to  be  a  bridegroom 
— whether  you  feel  as  depressed  as  you  look." 

"I  confess  I  shall  be  glad  when  it's  over,"  said  Felix. 

They  laughed,  and  w'ent  <on  talking.  Rose-Ann  was 
apparently  enjoying  herself.  She  and  Clive  were  exchang 
ing  pleasantries  on  the  subject  of  "modern  marriage."  For 
some  reason  the  phrase  annoyed  Felix.  Did  they  know 
what  nonsense  they  were  talking?  Oi4  did  they  really 
think  that  his  and  Rose-Ann's  marriag'e  was  to  be,  as 
it  were,  a  sociological  performance  for  the  benefit  of  on 
lookers  ? 

Presently  Rose-Ann  was  humourously  disclaiming  "all 
the  credit"  for  the  modernity  of  the  arrangement.  Felix, 
she  insisted,  was  equally  entitled  to  it;  he  was  just  as 
modern  as  she  was! 

"Why,"  Felix  suddenly  asked  in  exasperation,  "should 
we  all  want  to  be  so  damned  modern  ?" 

"Hark  to  the  defiant  bridegroom!"  said  Clive.  *He 
wishes  us  to  understand  that  /wj^wife  is  going  to  love, 
honour,  and  obey  him,  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way.  He 
won't  stand  for  any  of  this  new-fangled  nonsense.  The 
Cave-man  emerges!" 

Felix  flushed.  He  had  only  succeeded  in  making-  a  fool 
of  himself,  it  seemed. 

Rose-Ann  spoke  up.  "I  hope  it  will  be  modern,"  she 
said.  "I'm  sure  it  won't  be  like  any  of  the  marriages  I've 
seen  back  in  my  home  town.  .  .  .  Why  are  you  so 
afraid  of  freedom  and  modernity,  Felix?" 


Charivari  129 

Perhaps  it  was-  that  word  afraid,  which  Rose-Ann  used 
so  lightly,  that  stung  him.  "Because,"  he  said,  "I  am 
apparently  the  only  one  here  who  knows  what  those  words 
mean." 

He  had  not  intended  to  say  it — certainly  he  had  not 
intended  to  say  it  in  that  tone  of  Voice.  It  came  out, 
raspingly,  like  a  voice  out  of  a  music-box,  a  voice  from 
a  strange  record  that  has  been  put  in  unawares.  His 
voice  was,  even  to  his  own  ears,  remote  and  metallic. 

Rose- Ann  looked  at  him,  startled.  "What  words,  Felix?" 
she  asked  gently. 

"The  words  you  have  all  been  bandying  about,"  he 
replied.  "Modernity.  Freedom."  His  voice  was  still 
hard. 

"Well,  what  do  they  mean?" 

She  leaned  toward  him. 

The  others  were  silent,  listening — Clive  with  an  amused 
smile,  Phyllis  with  troubled  eyes. 

"Not  what  you  think,  I'm  afraid,  Rose-Ann,"  Felix's 
voice  answered,  the  voice  with  a  quiet  grimness  in  it. 

Rose-Ann's  voice  took  up  the  challenge  softly.  "And 
what  do  you  think  they  mean,  Felix  ?' 

He  looked  away  from  her,  and  spoke  as  if  from  a 
distance,  slowly.  "Freedom.  .  .  .  It's  not  a  nice  word, 
not  a  pretty  word  ...  to  me.  There  is  something 
terrible  in  it  ...  something  to  be  afraid  of.  .  .  ."  He 
looked  back  at  her.  "Don't  offer  me  freedom,  Rose-Ann." 

Her  voice  was  still  soft,  but  infinitely  cool  and  firm. 
"Why?  Because  you  might  take  it?  I  knew  that  when 
I  made  the  offer,  Felix.  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean. 
But  I  take  back  nothing."  She  lifted  her  chin  proudly. 
"I  am  not  afraid  of  freedom." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Clive.  "Rose-Ann,  I  am  falling  in  love 
with  you  myself!  Why  don't  you  marry  me  instead  of 
Felix!  He  doesn't  appreciate  you." 

Curiously  enough,  nobody  except  Felix  seemed  to  mind 
Clive's  clowning.  Both  girls  laughed,  and  the  atmosphere 
was  suddenly  cleared. 


130  The  Briary-Bush 

"*  "But  what  an  odd  occasion  for  us  to  choose  to  stage  a 
quarrel !"  said  Rose-Ann,  gaily. 

"Yes,"  said  Felix,  now  bewildered  and  contrite.  "I  must 
have  got  into  my  argumentative  mood.  I'm  sorry.  When 
I  get  to  arguing  I  think  of  no  one  and  nothing,  except 
the  point  at  issue — which  is  usually  not  of  the  slightest 
importance.  It's  a  bad  habit  you  must  break  me  of  when 
we  are  married." 

"You  are  forgiven,"  said  Phyllis. 

"Don't  forget  there's  fruit  salad  coming,"  said  Rose-Ann, 
rising  and  bringing  a  bowl  from  the  sideboard. 

"Yes,"  said  Give,  "and  the  car  will  be  here  for  you  two 
people  in  ten  minutes  or  so.  Will  you  have  your  coffee 
now,  Felix  ? — Rose- Ann  ?" 


XVIII.  The  Authority  of  the  State  of 
Illinois 


THE  car  took  them  through  the  deepening  snow  on  up 
to  the  county  seat,  where  the  license  was  soon  made 
out  for  them.  "You're  lucky  to  find  me  here  on 
hand  tonight,"  said  the  county  clerk.  They  expressed  their 
appreciation.  "But  I  like  to  accommodate  young  folks,"  he 
said  smiling,  and  shook  hands  with  them  when  they  left. 

It  was  snowing  more  heavily  all  the  time,  and  the  roads 
were  difficult,  but  Judge  Peabody  had  kept  his  promise, 
and  was  waiting  for  them  when  they  arrived.  He  greeted 
them  with  grave  benevolence. 

"Mr.  Bangs  tells  me  you  want  a  very  simple  ceremony," 
he  said,  and  put  on  his  spectacles  and  took  out  a  little  book, 
turning  the  pages  back  and  forth  until  he  found  the  right 
place. 

''Do  you,  Felix  Fay,  take  this  woman,  Rose-Ann  Prentiss, 
to  be  your  wedded  wife,  to  cherish  and  protect,  in  sickness 
and  in  health,  till  death  do  you  part?" 

A  promise:  a  strange  defiance  flung  out  by  the  human 
spirit  against  the  infinite  vicissitudes  of  chance;  a  barrier 
of  will  against  all  the  hostile  forces  of  the  days  and  years; 
a  renunciation  of  whatever  may  lie  outside  the  magic 
circle  of  our  little  mutual  happiness,  forever;  a  few  weak 
words,  easily  forgotten,  that  must  be  stronger  than  passion, 
stronger  than  forgetfulness.  .  .  . 

"I  do,"  he  said. 

"Do  you,  Rose-Ann  Prentiss.  .  .  ." 

"I  do." 

"Then,  by  th£  authority  of  the  State  of  Illinois,  in  me 
vested,  I  pronounce  you  husband  and  wife." 

He  took  off  his  spectacles  and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 


132  The  Briary-Bush 

2 

Rose-Ann  and  Felix  looked  at  each  other  in  a  kind  of 
surprise.  So  they  were  married! 

The  judge  was  wishing  them  happiness.  "And  now/'  he 
said,  "I'll  hurry  home  before  the  snow  gets  any  deeper." 

Felix,  a  little  embarrassed,  and  wishing  he  could  do  it 
less  obtrusively,  gave  him  a  crumpled  bill,  which  the  judge, 
without  embarrassment,  smoothed  out  and  placed  in  a 
wallet. 

"Good-night!"  he  said,  and  let  Phyllis  help  him  on  with 
his  overcoat.  "Good-night!" 

At  the  door  he  turned.  "Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said. 
"Do  you  want  a  marriage  certificate?" 

The  question  was  addressed  to  Rose-Ann.  She  shook 
her  head  in  a  determined  negative. 

"No?"  he  repeated  absently.  "Lots  of  people  don't, 
nowadays.  .  .  .  Good-night!" 

"I  suppose  you  know  the  house  is  yours  for  as  long  as 
you  want  it  now,"  said  Clive  to  Rose-Ann. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "Felix  just  remembered  to  tell  me  a 
little  while  ago.  It's  terribly  nice  of  you,  Clive.  I  can't 
think  of  a  lovelier  place  to  be !" 

"And  that's  the  car  honking  outside,"  he  said,  "to  take 
Phyllis  home  and  me  to  the  station.  I  shall  just  catch  the 
ten-fifteen.  Efficiency!"  He  gave  her  his  hand.  "I'll 
leave  you  two  strictly  alone  here — but  I'll  expect  to  come 
and  visit  you  in  your  real  home  as  soon  as  you  acquire 
one.  May  I?  You'll  probably  be  willing  by  that  time  to 
see  other  human  beings  again." 

"Of  course !"  she  said.     "And  you,  too,  Phyllis !" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Phyllis.  "I  shan't  be  here.  I'm  just 
home  for  the  week-end,  and  then  I'm  off  to  school  again. 
I  hope  I  shall  see  you  again  sometime.  I'm  sure  you're 
going  to  be  very  happy.  Good-bye."  The  girls  kissed. 

"Felix,"  said  Clive,  "doesn't  like  me  any  more.  He 
thinks  I  almost  spoiled  his  wedding.  Good-bye,  old  man!" 

"Well,"  said  Rose-Ann,  when  the  door  shut  them  out, 


The  Authority  of  the  State  of  Illinois    133 

"that's  over!"  She  came  to  him  and  drooped  within  his 
arms.  "I'm  very  tired.  Felix,  I  never  want  to  be  married 
again !" 

"Poor  dear !"  he  said,  "it  is  rather  awful,  isn't  it?" 
"Oh,"  she  said,  lifting  her  head  from  his  breast,  "there's 
one  more  thing  to  do,  before  we  can  be — just  us.     I  promised 
to  save  a  piece  of  my  wedding  cake  for  somebody."     She 
smiled.     "You  can't  guess  who!" 
"Yes,  I  can,"  he  said.     "Old  Granny  Perk!" 


XIX.  Together 


AT  dawn  Felix  awoke  with  a  sense  of  loneliness. 
The  vague  consciousness  which  had  remained  with 
him  even  in  sleep  of  a  beautiful  and  beloved  body 
at  his  side,  was  gone;  and  the  hand  that  he  reached  out  in 
troubled  half -sleep  had  found  no  warm  and  reassuring 
presence.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  as  though  the  night  had 
been  only  a  dream.  He  felt  a  vast  desolation,  a  profound 
ear.  It  was  as  if  not  this  one  night  only  had  been  taken  from 
him,  but  the  thousand  nights  and  days  which  lay  implicit 
in  it — the  lifetime  of  sweetness  and  intimacy  which  it  had 
begun. 

Startled  awake  by  the  pain  of  this  loneliness,  he  -looked 
about  him.  Rose-Ann  was  not  there.  The  bed  was  still 
warm  where  she  had  lain,  the  pillow  kept  the  impression 
of  her  head,  but  she  was  gone.  The  white  light  of  the  dawn 
lighted  the  room,  the  fire  was  dying  in  the  grate,  a  cool  little 
wind  swept  in  through  an  open  window,  and  one  of  the 
leaves  of  the  long  French  window  that  opened  on  the 
balcony  stood  ajar.  Rose- Ann's  clothing  lay  folded  on  a 
chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

His  reason  told  him  that  Rose-Ann  had  slipped  out  to 
the  balcony  to  breathe  the  morning  air.  But  he  was  still 
filled  with  the  terror  of  that  waking  moment.  Moved  by 
an  unreasoning1  fear,  he  leaped  from  the  bed  and  ran  to  the 
French  window.  Outside  the  world  was  white.  On  the 
balcony,  in  the  deep  snow,  were  the  imprints  of  her  little 
naked  feet.  Still  agitated,  he  followed  those  footprints 
where  they  led  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  And  then 
he  stopped,  and  gazed. 

She  was  there,  standing  unclothed  and  rosy  in  the  morning 

134 


Together  135 

wind,  in  the  light  of  the  dawn,  leaning  over  the  railing 
of  the  porch. 

"Rose- Ann!"  he  called  sharply. 

She  turned.  "Good-morning,  old  sleepy-head!"  she  cried. 
"You  were  dozing  so  peacefully  that  I  didn't  have  the 
heart  to  wake  you  up.  Isn't  it  lovely!"  And  she  waved 
a  hand  toward  the  ice-bound  lake  that  stretched  out  to 
the  east  like  an  Arctic  wilderness,  tinged  with  the  rose  of 
dawn. 

"What  are  you  doing  out  here?"  he  demanded,  com 
mencing  to  shiver. 

"I  was  thinking  of  taking  a  snow-bath  I"  she  said.  I  ve 
always  wanted  to  and  never  have.  Look  where  the  snow 
has  drifted  up  here  against  the  house.  Wouldn't  it  be 
wonderful  just  to  drop  off  into  that  snow  bank!  Come, 
let's  do  it !"  She  took  his  hand  and  led  him  to  the  edge  of 
the  porch,  which  was  here  only  a  few  feet  above  the  ground, 
with  the  snow  piled  up  to  its  very  edge. 

"But  how  would  we  get  out  of  that  snow-bank  once  we 
had  got  in!"  he  expostulated.  It  was  a  crazy  idea,  and 
he  had  no  intention  of  letting  her  carry  it  out. 

"Oh,  don't  let's  stand  here  and  argue  about  it,"  she  said 
impatiently,  "and  get  cold.  I'm  going  to,  anyway!"  And 
before  he  could  stop  her  she  had  climbed  the  railing  and 
leaped  down  into  the  snow-bank.  ...  He  realized  that  he 
must  do  the  same.  There  was  no  choice!  And  in  an 
instant  he  had  leaped  down  beside  her,  down  crunching 
through  soft  feathery  snow  that  stung  the  skin  deliciously 
and  made  the  blood  hot  in  his  veins— and  an  instant  later, 
laughing,  they  were  fighting  their  way  out  and  stumbling 
up  the  steps  to  the  balcony  and  into  the  house. 

"Towels!"  cried  Rose-Ann,  racing  to  the  bathroom  and 
back  and  flinging  him  one.  "Now  wasn't  that  worth  doing  !|' 

"And   no   doubt   very   entertaining   to   the    neighbours," 

Felix  grumbled— secretly  rejoicing  in  their  spectacular  feat. 

It  really  seemed  to  him  a  splendidly  pagan  thing  to  have^done. 

"Our   only   neighbour   for   miles   is   Mrs.    Cowan,"   said 

Rose-Ann,    "and    she's    over    somewhere    the    other    way. 


136  The  Briary-Bush 

Besides,  for  once  in  my  life  I'm  going  to  do  the  things  I 
want  to  do  without  stopping  to  think  of  other  people  first. 
Now,  Felix,  can  you  build  a  fire?  If  you  can't,  I  can!" 

"Of  course  I  can  build  a  fire,"  said  Felix.  "The  real 
question  is,  can  you  cook  an  egg?  Because  if  you  can't,  I 
can."  He  was  a  little  nettled  at  her  having  taken  the  lead 
in  the  snow-bath,  and  he  did  not  intend  to  let  her  carry  off 
any  more  honours  of  leadership.  "If  Clive  has  not  deceived 
and  betrayed  us,"  he  continued,  "you  ought  to  be  able  to 
find  eggs  and  things  in  the  kitchen." 

"All  right,"  she  said  obediently;  and  finished  with  the 
simple  task  of  dressing,  in  an  old  skirt  and  a  smock,  but 
not  without  a  look  at  herself  in  the  glass,  she  started  off 
to  the  kitchen. 

Felix  looked  at  the  fire.  It  needed  rebuilding,  and  he 
would  have  to  chop  some  more  kindling.  He  went  down  to 
tihe  woodshed,  and  energetically  chopped  up  one  stick. 
Then  he  paused,  laid  down  the  hatchet,  and  commenced  to 
whistle  a  plaintive,  melancholy,  tuneless  tune.  He  picked  up 
his  hatchet,  ran  his  thumb  over  the  edge,  and  laid  it  down 
again. 

He  was  not  thinking  about  chopping  kindling.  He  was 
thinking  about  Rose-Ann,  there  in  the  kitchen  only  a  few 
feet  away.  What  was  she  doing?  He  could  see  her  in 
imagination,  ransacking  Give's  cupboards.  He  wished  he 
could  see  her  in  reality.  He  started  to  his  feet  impulsively* 
and  then  sat  down  again. 

He  was  annoyed  with  himself.  Couldn't  he  be  separated 
from  her  for  a  few  minutes  without  wanting  to  tag  after  her  ? 
She  would  be  surprised,  and  perhaps  annoyed,  by  his  coming 
in.  She  would  ask,  "Have  you  got  the  fire  built?  Well 
then,  for  heaven's  sake,  go  and  build  it,  and  leave  me  alone 
to  get  you  some  breakfast!" 

He  could  not  confess  to  her  how  utterly  indispensable 
her  presence  had  become  to  him.  .  .  .  Yesterday  they  had 
been  two  different  and  separate  persons — but  they  were  so 
no  longer.  A  quaint  churchly  phrase  leaped  into  his  mind, 
a  phrase  that  had  never  seemed  real  before:  "these  twain 


Together  137 

shall  be  made  one  flesh."  He  knew  its  truth  now.  Last 
night  they  had  lain  and  talked  for  hours  of  the  things  they 
were  going  to  do — together.  Together!  Their  life  hence 
forth  had  pictured  itself  to  them  as  something  enjoyed 
always  in  common.  They  had  not  thought,  last  night,  of  ever 
being  apart  again.  But  of  course  they  would  be  apart — a 
great  deal  of  the  time.  And  Doubtless  it  was  as  well  to 
begin  now.  There  was  no  sense  whatever  to  this  feeling 
of  loneliness.  He  was  going  to  have  the  rest  of  a  lifetime 
with  Rose-Ann,  and  he  certainly  ought  to  be  able  to  go  off 
and  chop  a  little  wood  without  her.  No,  he  must  not  go  to 
the  kitchen  to  see  what  she  was  doing!  He  must  subdue 
this  weakness — this  absurd  feeling  of  helpless  loneliness  when 
he  left  her  for  a  moment. 

He  raised  his  hatchet  and  brought  it  down  sharply  on  the 
stick  of  wood.  The  door  opened,  and  there  stood  Rose- 
Ann,  with  an  apron  on,  her  cheeks  flushed. 

"Hello !"  he  said,  and  laid  down  the  hatchet. 

"I  just  came  to  see  what  you  were  doing,"  she  said. 

"Chopping  a  little  kindling,  that's  all,"  he  said. 

"Oh,"  she  said.     She  continued  to  look  at  him  with  interest. 

He  took  up  the  hatchet  again,  and  split  the  stick  with  a 
few  efficient  strokes.  She  looked  about,  up-ended  a  short 
log,  and  sat  down,  her  hands  in  her  lap.  Felix  chopped 
another  stick,  and  another,  with  a  sense  of  great  peace 
and  contentment.  Chopping  kindling  had  become  very 
interesting.  He  chopped  on,  under  her  gaze.  He  did  not 
need  to  look  up  at  her.  She  was  there  with  him;  that 
was  sufficient.  He  went  on  chopping. 

"Don't  you  think  that's  enough  kindling  now,  Felix?" 
she  asked  at  last,  hesitantly. 

He  looked  at  the  pile.  He  had  chopped  an  awful  lot! 
"I  thought  I  might  as  well  cut  enough  to  last  for  a  while," 
he  explained. 

"A  good  idea,"  she  agreed.  "And  we  might  as  well  take 
a  lot  upstairs  while  we're  about  it.  I'll  take  some,  if  you'll 
load  me."  She  held  out  her  arms,  and  he  piled  them  full, 
then  loaded  his  own,  and  they  went  up  together. 


138  The  Briary-Bush 

She  knelt  beside  him,  watching,  while  he  laid  the  fire. 
He  felt  somewhat  insecure  in  his  knowledge  of  fire-making, 
and  he  tried  to  remember  just  how  Give  had  done  it  the  day 
before.  But  he  felt  nothing  critical  in  Rose- Ann's  watching ; 
and  apparently  he  remembered  well,  for  the  fire  behaved 
quite  as  it  should.  He  waited  until  the  proper  moment,  put 
on  the  cannel  coal,  and  drew  the  fire-screen  in  front  of  the 
fireplace. 

Rose-Ann  stood  up.  "Now  we'll  go  and  get  breakfast," 
she  said. 

In  the  kitchen,  she  turned  to  him.  "Do  you  like 
omelettes?"  she  asked. 

"I  love  them,"  he  said. 

"With  peas  and  things  in?  There's  a  can  of  little  peas 
here."  She  searched  in  a  drawer  and  found  a  can-opener. 

"Here,  let  me,"  said  Felix  authoritatively,  and  took  it 
from  her. 

She  surrendered  it,  and  bent  to  another  drawer,  bringing 
out  another  apron. 

"Must  wear,"  she  said,  and  tied  it  around  him. 

The  touch  of  her  fingers  was  too  much.  He  turned  and 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  found  himself  tightly  bound  in 
hers,  and  kissed  the  eager  lips  uplifted  to  his. 

"Oh,  Felix!"  she  cried  in  a  weak,  smothered  voice. 
"Felix,  lover!" 

"And  now,"  she  said  at  last,  smiling  happily  and  rousing 
herself  from  their  dream,  "we  really  must  get  breakfast!" 


After  breakfast,  which  was  prolonged  for  hours  by  talk 
and  cigarettes  and  endless  cups  of  coffee,  they  "bundled  up" 
and  took  a  long  walk,  through  the  deep  snow,  stumbling 
and  laughing  like  children,  and  as  indefatigable  as  children. 
First  they  went  down  to  the  lake,  that  snowy  waste  strewn 
with  high-piled  ice-hummocks,  and  with  the  blue  of  water 
showing  strangely  here  and  there.  Then  they  turned  their 
backs  on  it,  and  walked  toward  the  west,  where  the  black 
branches  of  trees  made  delicate  patterns  against  the  sky. 


Together  139 

They  were  as  if  aware  of  the  kinship  of  their  love  to  the  life 
of  the  earth,  and  seeking  outdoors  that  magical  sympathy  of 
natural  living  things  which  no  roof-tree,  however  hospitable, 
can  furnish  to  lovers.  This  great  white  expanse,  with  no 
green  thing  visible  anywhere,  with  not  even  the  friendly  touch 
of  the  ground  underfoot,  might  have  seemed  to  hold  out  no 
invitation  to  their  love.  It  was  an  earth  sunken  in  winter- 
sleep,  apparently  unconscious  of  their  presence,  vastly 
indifferent  to  their  demand.  And  yet  they  loved  it,  and 
it  gave  them  something  which  they  craved. 

Utterly  exhausted,  they  reached  home  at  last,  with  the 
sunset  flaming  behind  the  black  branches.  They  were 
ravenously  hungry.  But  they  faced  the  prospect  of  clearing 
up  after  last  night's  feast,  a  task  blithely  postponed  that 
morning,  before  they  would  have  dishes  enough  to  eat  from. 
Of  course,  they  might  have  had  Mrs.  Cowan  come  in;  but 
they  preferred  their  magic  isolation.  Changed  into  dry  gar 
ments,  they  set  to  work  washing  dishes — not  without  a 
friendly  quarrel  over  which  one  should  wash  and  which  one 
wipe  them. 

"Maybe  you  think  a  man  doesn't  know  how  to  wash 
dishes,"  Felix  said  belligerently. 

"No,"  said  Rose-Ann,  "but  I  think  a  woman  might  have 
the  privilege  of  washing  dishes  in  her  own  house.  .  .  . 
Felix,  I  wish  this  were  our  own  house !  I  shall  hate  to  go 
back  to  town  after  this.  .  .  .  But  don't  let's  think  about 
that  now.  All  right,  selfish,  you  can  wash  the  dishes!" 

The  thought  frightened  Felix  a  little.  A  house  of  their 
own!  A  house  in  the  country!  How  beautiful,  and  yet 
how — but  no,  nothing  seemed  impossible  now.  .  .  .  They 
could  plan  for  it,  and  work  for  it,  and  at  last  have  it, 
together.  .  .  . 

3 

"Read  me  some  poetry,  Felix,"  said  Rose-Ann,  after 
dinner,  as  they  lay  drowsily,  in  a  great  warm  nest  of  cushions, 
in  front  of  the  fire  in  the  room  upstairs. 

He  stirred  himself,  and  then    -elaxed.     Rose- Ann's  head 


140  The  Briary-Bush 

was  nestled  in  the  hollow  under  his  shoulder,  and  her  red- 
gold  hair,  unbound,  flowed  across  her  bosom  and  touched 
his  caressing  hand.  He  was  altogether  too  happily  situated 
at  this  moment  to  want  to  go  downstairs  and  look  for  a  book 
•of  poems.  Besides,  why  need  he? 

"And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten" 

!he  began.  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  from  her  quiet  breathing 
one  might  have  thought  her  asleep.  But  once  when  he 
faltered,  forgetting  the  words,  Rose-Ann  murmured  them 
softly : 

"And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten. 
He  took  it  up,  in  his  voice  of  subdued  chanting: 

"And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 

Blossom   by  blossom   the  spring  begins.  .  .   " 

and  so  to  the  end. 

"Say  me  some  more,"  she  breathed.  "Like  that.  Any 
thing  with  woods  or  flowers  in  it." 

He  began  quoting,  mischievously  filling  in  words  to  make 
up  the  rhythm  where  he  forgot  the  original : 

"Iris  all  hues,  roses  and  jessamine.  .  .  . 
In  shadier  bo.wer.  .  .  .  (I  forget!    But  here  it  was) 
With  flowers,  garlands  and  sweet-smelling  herbs 
Espoused  Eve  decked  first  her  nuptial  bed.  .  .  . 
Yes  Eve!      In  naked  beauty  more  adorned, 
More  lovely  than  Pandora.     (So  Milton  says!) 

"I  can't  remember  just  how  it  goes,  but  there  are  some 
lovely  things  in  that  old  Puritan's  blood-and-thunder 
epic.  .  .  . 

"These,  lulled  by  nightingales,  embracing  slept, 
And  on  their  naked  limbs  the  flowery  roof 
Showered  roses.     (She's  asleep!)" 

Outside,  unseen,  the  moon  emerged  from  behind  racing 
clouds,  and  lighted  with  its  pale  radiance  the  great  stretch 
of  winter-bound  lake  and  desolate  shore  along  which  they 
had  wandered  that  day  seeking  some  response  in  its  vast 


Together  141 

indifference ;  and  its  rays  touched  and  silvered  the  roof-tree 
of  the  little  house  on  the  edge  of  a  ravine,  within  whose 
doors,  by  the  grace  of  the  English  poets,  it  was  April. 
Blossom  by  blossom,  about  their  couch,  the  spring  began, 
and  upon  their  naked  limbs  showered  roses. 

"No,"  said  Rose- Ann,  "I'm  not  asleep !" 

He  laughed  tenderly.  "No,  not  now.  But  you  have  been 
for  half  an  hour.  I've  been  watching  you  sleep.  You  do 
it  beautifully!" 

"Have  I  really?"  She  stretched  herself,  like  a  kitten  upon 
awaking  from  a  nap.  "Well,  I'm  awake  now,  and  I  want 
some  more  poetry.  Something  sad  this  time." 

"More  poetry?     What  a  glutton  you  are!" 

"But  I  like  poetry,  Felix.  It's  real  to  me — as  real  as 
our  love." 

"But  why  sad  poetry?"  he  teased. 

"I  don't  know.     I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  so  happy." 

"I  know,"  said  Felix,  and  out  of  the  storehouse  of  his 
memory  he  brought  one  after  another  the  stones   of   old 
unhappy  love,  impossible  love,  love  that  goes  toward  death. 
It  was  as  if  the  contrast  of  these  tragic  fantasies  was  needed 
to  make  poignant  the  sweet  and  easy  fulfilment  of  their 
own  love — as  if   some  chill  breath   from  the  grave  must 
intervene  between  their  caresses  lest  they  seem  too  tame. 
"The  mountain  ways  one  summer 
Saw  life  and  joy  go  past, 
When  we  who  were  so  lonely 
Went  hand  in  hand  at  last. 

"And  overhead  the  pine-woods 
Their  purple  shadows  cast, 
When  the  tall  twilight  laid  us 
Hot  mouth  to  mouth  at  last. 

"O  hills,  beneath  your  slumber, 
Or  pines,  beneath  your  blast, 
Make  room  for  your  two  children — 
Cold  cheek  to  cheek  at  last!" 


142  The  Briary-Bush 

"No,"  murmured  Rose-Ann,  lifting  her  head  and  putting 
her  warm  cheek  against  his  own,  a  cheek  wet  with  sudden 
tears.  "Not  cold  cheek  to  cheek,  Felix !" 

Tears  sprung  from  that  sweet  sadness  which  only  happy 
youth  dares  indulge — the  wilful  and  daring  melancholy  of 
young  love,  turning  aside  from  its  joys  to  think  of  death.  .  .  . 

Rose-Ann  dried  her  eyes  cheerfully.  "I  wanted  to  cry," 
she  said,  "and  now  that  I  have,  I  feel  better.  Give  me  a 
cigarette !" 


XX.  "The  Nest-building  Instinct3 


BY  mid-week,  Rose-Ann  had  become  transformed  into 
a  housewife.  Meals  were  being  planned,  the  butcher 
and  the  grocer  were  making  regular  deliveries,  Mrs. 
Cowan  had  been  pressed  into  service,  and  Rose- Ann  was  quite 
the  mistress  of  the  establishment. 

And  then  suddenly  she  became  discontented.  "I  can't 
keep  on  playing  that  this  is  my  house,"  she  said.  "There 
are  so  many  things  I  want  to  do  to  it !  Let's  go  in  to  town 
and  look  for  a  place  of  our  own." 

So  on  Thursday  morning  they  took  the  train  to  town. 
On  the  way  in,  they  marked — or  rather,  Rose-Ann  marked — 
a  dozen  advertisements  of  apartments  to  let,  which  she 
proposed  to  spend  the  morning  looking  at. 

"I'm  not  going  to  find  what  I  want,"  she  said,  "and  I'm 
going  to  be  cross,  I  know.  I'd  really  rather  not  have  you 
along.  Why  don't  you  do  something  else  ?  Go  and  visit  the 
office.  We'll  meet  at  lunch." 

"All  right,"  said  Felix.  Going  to  the  office,  as  it  were  to 
confess  his  marriage,  was  an  uncomfortable  errand.  In 
spite  of  what  Give  had  said,  it  seemed  to  him  far  less 
likely  that  he  would  get  a  raise  than  that  he  would  be  fired. 
But  it  did  not  seem  to  matter  much  now,  if  he  did  get  fired. 
The  Chronicle  job  no  longer  seemed  the  only  one  in  Chicago. 

"Where  shall  we  meet,  and  when  ?"  he  asked. 

He  noted  down  the  time  and  place.  "But  don't  you  want 
to  come  with  me?  Clive  would  like  to  see  you." 

"No,  but  you  can  bring  Clive  along  to  lunch,  if  he  will 
come." 

"Good-bye,  then."  It  was  their  first  parting  since 

i43 


144  The  Briary-Bush 

Saturday,  ages  ago.     It  was  to  be  for  hours.     In  the  station 
here,  amid  the  crowds,  they  sought  to  be  casual  about  it. 

"Good-bye."  She  smiled,  and  turned  away.  He  walked 
a  few  steps,  and  then  turned.  She  had  stopped,  too,  and 
was  looking  back  at  him  mournfully. 

He  came  back  to  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  "How 
foolish  we  are!"  she  whispered,  and  surrendered  herself 
to  a  kiss  that  seemed  somehow,  to  both  of  them,  to  make 
their  temporary  separation  endurable. 

At  the  office,  Felix  perceived  at  once,  by  the  manner  of 
his  welcome,  that  he  had  established  himself  more  firmly 
in  the  esteem  of  everybody  by  getting  married.  He  shook 
hands  formally  with  every  one,  and  received  their  congratula 
tions.  At  last,  it  seemed  to  be  over.  But  Willie  Smith  re 
minded  him :  "You  haven't  been  in  to  see  the  Old  Man,  have 
you?" 

Felix  could  not  imagine  that  Mr.  Devoe  would  concern 
himself  with  such  a  matter  as  a  reporter's  marriage.  But 
Willie  managed  to  convey  to  him  Mr.  Devoe  would  feel 
hurt  if  not  permitted  to  add  his  felicitations.  "Sure,  the 
Old  Man  will  want  to  see  you  !" 

Felix  shyly  went  in.  Mr.  Devoe  rose  and  shook  his  hand 
warmly.  "Yes,  Mr.  Bangs  told  us,"  he  said.  "Quite  a 
surprise,  my  boy.  But  it's  the  right  way  to  start  out  in  life. 
Yes.  ...  I  understand  you're  quite  well  again?  I'm  glad 
it  wasn't  anything  serious — you  look  quite  well  now — "  and 
his  eyes  twinkled.  "When  you  get  back  to  work,  come  in 
and  see  me — we  may  have  some  new  plans  for  you.  Next 
Monday?  Very  good." 

New  plans.  .  .  .  Felix  wondered  what  that  phrase  might 
mean.  Perhaps  the  promise  of  a  raise  in  wages — though 
it  sounded  like  something  more  than  that.  But  he  could 
not  guess  what  it  might  be,  and  he  decided  not  to  tell  Rose- 
Ann  about  it — she  was  so  egregiously  confident  for  him, 
and  she  might  build  up  vain  hopes  on  a  phrase  that  meant 
nothing.  He  did  not  want  her  to  be  disappointed. 

' 


The  Nest-building  Instinct          145 


Clive,  who  looked  tired,  and  seemed  preoccupied,  came 
willingly  enough  along  to  lunch.  "So  the  nest-building 
instinct  is  at  work  already!"  observed  Clive.  And  then: 
"What  kind  of  place  does  Rose-Ann  want?  One  with 
elevators,  a  man  in  brass  buttons  to  answer  the  door,  and  a 
garbage  incinerator?" 

At  lunch,  which  started  in  with  a  curious  lack  of  amica 
bility,  Felix  repeated  this  latter  pleasantry  to  Rose-Ann. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  what  she  wanted  might  very  easily 
be  something  beyond  his  income,  even  with  that  possible 

raise. 

Rose-Ann  smiled  at  Clive.  "Not  exactly  that,"  she  said. 
"Perhaps  more  preposterous  still!  The  truth  is,  I  don't 
know,  exactly.  All  I  do  know  is  that  I  don't  like  any  of 
the  things  I've  seen  this  morning.  I  did  see.  some  that— 
but  no,  even  those  won't  do." 

"What's  the  matter  with  them?"  asked  Felix. 

"I'll  take  you  along  and  let  you  see  for  yourself.  Mostly 
stuffy  little  cubicles.  You  know  what  the  ordinary  Chicago 
flat  is  like." 

"Why  should  you  want  something  different?"  asked  Clive 
innocently. 

"Why  not?"  said  Rose- Ann,  challengingly.  "Felix  and 
I  are  different— why  should  we  live  like  everybody  else?" 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Clive.  "I  confess  I  thought 
you  were  going  to." 

"Is  that  why  you  have  been  so  distant  and  satirical  with 
me  today  ?  Had  you  lost  confidence  in  me  already  ?" 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said. 

"You  are  angry  at  some  other  girl,"  said  Rose-Ann 
shrewdly. 

Clive  smiled.     "Perhaps  you  are  right." 

"And  if  you  gave  me  a  hundred  guesses,"  said  Rose-Ann, 
"perhaps  I  could  guess  the  girl,  too." 

"Perhaps  you  could,"  he  conceded. 

"So  it's  Phyllis.     I'm  sorry.     I  like  her  very  much." 


146  The  Briary-Bush 

"So  do  I,"  said  Clive  grimly. 

Felix  was  surprised  at  Rose-Ann's  rashness  in  teasing 
Clive  about  a  situation  concerning  which  he  had  always 
shown  a  disposition  to  keep  his  own  counsel;  and  still 
more  surprised  at  the  way  Clive  took  this  teasing. 

"Well,"  Rose-Ann  was  saying,  "she  has  an  air  of  quiet 
possessiveness  towards  you  which  indicates  that  not  much 
can  be  amiss!" 

"What  is  amiss,  dear  lady,"  said  Clive  gravely,  "is  with 
the  universe.  Phyllis  and  I  are  each  all  right,  in  our  separate 
ways,  I  hope.  Phyllis  is,  I'm  sure! — she's  a  lovely  child, 
isn't  she?  .  .  .  With  an  interesting  history  too.  Perhaps 
I'll  tell  it  to  you,  some  time." 

"Clive  is  very  unhappy,  isn't  he?"  said  Rose- Ann,  when 
he  had  left  them  for  a  moment  to  talk  to  a  couple  who  had 
greeted  him  from  another  table. 

"He  prefers  to  be  unhappy,  I  think,"  said  Felix. 

"Why  should  you  be  so  unsympathetic,  Felix?  Because 
you  are  contented,  you  think  everybody  else  ought  to  find 
it  easy  to  achieve  the  same  state?  I  hope  you're  not  going 
to  be  smug.  I'm  really  sorry  for  Clive." 

"I  might  be  sorry,  if  I  knew  what  to  be  sorry  about.  I 
haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  the  trouble  is." 

"That  neurotic  girl,  of   course." 

"Neurotic?  Do  you  mean  Phyllis?  Why,  what  non 
sense!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Why  nonsense?"  she  asked. 

"Because — why — well,  it's  just  ridiculous!" 

"After  all,  Felix,  we  neither  of  us  know  her  well  enough 
to  be  so  positive,"  said  Rose- Ann  pacifyingly. 

"Then  why  do  you  say  that  about  her?" 

"Because  I  think  it,  Felix!"  she  replied  with  a  touch  of 
exasperation.  "I  really  do!" 

"I  can't  understand  you,"  he  said  coldly. 

"What  are  you  children  quarrelling  about  now?"  asked 
Clive,  returning. 

Rose-Ann  laughed.  "About  nothing  at  all,  again.  Felix, 
we  are  rather  absurd.  Come,  we'll  look  at  those  apartments. 


The  Nest-building  Instinct          147 

—And    don't    imagine    vain    things    about    our    home    till 
you  see  it,  Clive !" 

3 

To  Felix,  the  apartments  seemed  just  apartments.  An 
apartment  couldn't  be  a  house  in  the  country.  And  as 
apartments,  these  were  all  that  could  be  expected.  The  only 
serious  objection  to  them,  indeed,  was  that  the  rents  were 
rather  high. 

"Why  don't  you  like  them?"  he  asked  again. 

"I  don't  know.     They're  not  quite — our  kind  of  place." 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  you  meant,  Rose-Ann,"  he  said 
wistfully. 

"I'll  try  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "on  the  way  home." 

And  on  the  train,  she  began:  "You  saw  those  people  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hall  at  that  last  place  we  looked  at?" 
The  door  had  been  opened  by  a  fat  man  with  a  bulging 
neck,  and  they  had  glimpsed  an  interior  of  plush  and  golden 
oak,  and  the  rather  plump  and  vapid-looking  woman  who 
awaited  him  there.  "Well,  those  apartments  are  made  for 
people  like  that— I  mean  people  without  imagination.  They 
take  such  an  apartment  and  buy  some  of  the  furniture  that  is 
made  to  go  in  it,  and  they  settle  down  and  are  contented 
there.  Why  not !  It  has  a  kitchen,  a  dining-room,  a  bed 
room,  a  bath-room,  and  a  room  to  sit  in  and  entertain 
callers.  And  that  is  the  whole  of  their  existence — cooking, 
eating,  sleeping,  washing  their  bodies,  and  showing  off  to 
their  friends.  But  that  isn't  the  whole  of  our  existence. 
—Felix,  I  would  rather  we  would  eat  at  a  lunch-wagon 
and  sleep  on  a  park  bench,  than  make  those  things  the  centre 
of  our  lives !" 

It  was  not  so  much  her  argument  that  impressed  him  as 
the  genuine  and  profound  scorn  in  her  tone  and  manner. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  defection  of  sympathy  in  himself 
from  the  point  of  view  that  her  words  expressed.  It  might 
have  been  himself  of  a  few  years  ago  saying  these  things  so 
intensely;  and  yet  they  seemed  like  nonsense  to  him  now! 
But  one  could  not  argue  about  such  things  in  the  midst 


148  The  Briary-Bush 

of  a  trainload  of  people,  the  nearest  of  whom  were  already 
beginning  to  be  too  much  interested  in  one's  affairs,  so  he 
only  said,  "Yes — I  think  I  understand." 

But  his  mind  went  back  to  their  life  in  the  country — to 
the  cooking  of  that  first  breakfast  in  the  kitchen,  to  their 
first  dinner  after  walking  through  miles  of  snow,  to  the  bed 
of  their  happy  love  and  sleep,  the  tingling  snow-baths  at 
dawn,  and  the  fire  in  front  of  which  they  had  sat  and 
talked  for  so  many  lazy  hours — and  it  seemed  to  him,  without 
quite  understanding  why,  that  Rose- Ann  was  really  denounc 
ing  her  own  life  there  with  him !  A  kitchen,  a  table,  a  bed, 
a  bath,  a  fire — 'hadn't  these  things  circumscribed  their  life? 
"People  like  that"  she  had  said,  bitterly.  Who  were  these 
people  but  their  own  happy  selves  of  the  past  week?  And 
why  had  she  turned  so  fiercely  against  that  happiness? 

All  these  things  passed  through  his  mind  swiftly  and 
vaguely,  an  emotion  rather  than  a  thought:  an  emotion  of 
mingled  anger  and  pity — a  strange  anger  and  a  strange  pity 
that  he  could  not  understand.  Vaguely  he  sensed  the 
existence  in  her  of  a  tragically  divided  mind,  torn  between 
the  desire  to  sink  deep  into  the  lap  of  that  simple  and  tradi 
tional  domesticity  she  had  been  experiencing,  and  the  fear  of 
some  profound  hurt  and  shame  in  making  that  surrender  in 
vain.  .  .  . 

But  if  he  sensed  this  struggle  in  her,  it  was  not  very 
clearly,  and  it  was  obscured  by  his  effort  to  think  the  situation 
out  in  logical  terms.  "Confound  it,"  he  thought,  "if  we 
live  in  town,  we  must  live  in  an  apartment — and  all  apart 
ments  are  more  or  less  alike.  Of  course,  some  are  bigger 
than  others.  It  is  probably  the  cramped  space  that  she  objects 
to,  after  that  house  in  the  country.  Well,  if  I  get  my  raise 
— let  me  see.  .  .  ." 

Across  the  aisle  were  two  women  interestedly  talking 
with  each  other,  one  of  them  a  young  mother,  with  a  rather 
frightened  little  tow-headed  boy  of  a  year  old  in  her  lap. 
He  had  been  enduring  this  strange  adventure  rather  stoically, 
but  he  felt  neglected,  and  his  lips  were  curving  down 
further  and  further  toward  the  danger  point  of  tears.  He 


The  Nest-building  Instinct          149 

was  feeling  very  sorry  for  himself.  .  .  .  Rose-Ann  had 
watched  the  small  lips  begin  to  twist  and  the  round  chin  begin 
to  tremble,  and  she  leaned  forward  and  smiled  at  him— a  smile 
which  interested  him,  which  he  considered  hesitantly,  and  at 
last  found  irresistible  and  answered  wholeheartedly  with  a 
beaming  one  of  his  own.  This  was  not  such  a  cold  and 
indifferent  world  after  all ;  somebody  did  love  him ! 

Rose-Ann  looked  up,  rather  furtively,  at  Felix,  who  was 
engaged  in  computing  his  rent-paying  capacity.  The  women 
got  out  at  the  next  stop,  and  she  leaned  back  in  her  seat. 

"Some  time,"  Felix  was  saying,  "we  might  be  able  to 
have  a  house  in  the  country  like  Give's.  .  .  ." 

"We  don't  want  a  house  in  the  country,"  said  Rose-Ann 
energetically.  "What  would  we  do  with  a  house  in  the 
country?  No,  we  want  a  place  in  town,  convenient  to  our 
work,  yours  and  mine." 

"Your  work?— you  mean  your  dramatic  class?"  asked 
Felix,  reflecting  that  Rose-Ann  was  rather  changeable.  Only 
a  few  days  ago  she  had  hated  to  come  to  town.  .  .  . 

"No— I  mean  a  real  job.  I  don't  know  what,  yet.  But 
I'm  going  to  get  one.  I'm  tired  of  playing  with  children." 

Felix  looked  at  her  vaguely,  still  doing  sums  in  his  head. 
And  for  a  moment  he  seemed  to  her  very  stupid.  And 
perhaps  he  was.  Yet  it  is  an  exacting  demand  to  make  upon 
a  young  husband  that  he  be  able  to  read  his  wife's  mind,  and 
know  the  wishes  which  she  will  not  even  admit  the  existence 
of  to  herself ! 

They  reached  Woods  Point,  and  took  a  waiting  taxi. 

"If  I  only  knew  what  you  really  want!"  he  said,  as  they 
started  up  their  path. 

"What  I  really  want?" 

"Yes.     All  places  to  live  in  are  more  or  less  alike." 

"Oh!  No,  they're  not,  Felix.  There  are  enough  odd 
corners  left  in  a  city  like  Chicago  to  provide  for  the  few 
odd  people  like  us  who  don't  want  the  same  things  every 
body  else  does.  Don't  fear,  we  shall  find  something,  sooner 
or  later !" 

"But  when  and  how?"  Felix  demanded  impatiently.     "We 


150  The  Briary-Bush 

must  live  somewhere  while  we  are  looking  for  this  Utopia !" 

'That's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about,"  said  Rose- 
Ann.  .  .  .  An  idea,  a  whimsical  and  perverse  idea,  had 
just  come  into  her  mind — an  idea  that  hurt  her  at  first  by 
its  flagrant  rebellious  malice,  and  then  suddenly  took  posses 
sion  of  her,  and  seemed  eminently  sane  and  reasonable. 
"I've  been  thinking  of  it  all  day,"  she  said — and  as  she 
spoke  it  seemed  to  her  a  mature  and  long-considered  plan. 
She  took  his  arm  persuasively.  "Felix,  we  have  a  whole 
lifetime  ahead  of  us — and  it  is  more  important  for  us  to 
live  the  kind  of  life  we  want  to,  than  just  to  be  together 
for  a  week  or  two.  If  we  take  the  kind  of  place  we  don't 
want,  we  shall  settle  down  there  and  be  like  everybody  else, 
and  it  will  take  years  to  break  free.  .  .  .  Suppose  we 
weren't  married  yet — we  would  decide  on  how  and  where 
we  wanted  to  live,  first;  and  we  would  take  whatever 
little  time  was  necessary  to  work  out  our  practical  arrange 
ments  before  we  did  commence  living  together.  .  .  ." 

Why,  yes,  perhaps — though  this,  Felix  reflected  wist 
fully,  was  not  the  spirit  in  which  they  had  acted  on  that  Sat 
urday  .  .  .  ages  ago  it  seemed,  when  they  had  left  the 
hospital  to  be  married.  But  what  in  the  world  was  she 
getting  at? 

"Felix,  dear,  would  you  think  it  so  terrible  for  us  to  live 
apart  a  little  while,  you  at  your  place  and  I  at  mine,  until 
we  get  a  place  we  really  want — ?" 

He  understood  her  argument  now,  and  to  his  mind  it 
seemed  one  reasonable  enough.  He  had,  in  the  past,  some 
times  argued  in  favour  of  lovers  keeping  their  own  separate 
establishments.  And  a  mere  temporary  separation,  for  any 
good  reason,  and  however  in  defiance  of  custom,  was  some 
thing  which  he  could  expect  himself  to  view  calmly.  But 
his  reason  was  not  for  the  moment  in  control  of  the  situation. 
The  blood  mounted  to  his  head  in  a  dizzying  rush  of 
anger,  his  cheeks  burned,  and,  with  an  effort  to  control 
himself,  he  said  coldly :  "No,  I  would  not  consider  that 
idea  for  a  moment."  And  then,  losing  control  of  himself, 


The  Nest-building  Instinct          151 

he  added:  "If  you  want  to  leave  me,  Rose- Ann,  you  can 
do  it  right  now.  But  there  won't  be  any  coming  back. 
Do  you  understand?" 

He  was  astonished  at  himself  for  that  speech,  and  stil 
more  astonished  at  its  results.     Rose-Ann  dropped  his  arm, 
looked  at  him,  and  then,  under  his  indignant  glance,  suddenly 
melted  to  tears. 

"But,  Felix!"  she  cried,  and  came  and  clung  to  his  arm 
desperately.  "I  didn't  mean  that!  Oh,  Felix!"  and  as 
they  reached  their  door,  she  flung  herself  unrestrainedly 
on  his  breast. 

"Felix!  forgive  me!  I  will  do  whatever  you  want.  1 
will  live  anywhere  you  say.  I  will  be  good,  truly  I  will 

He  petted  her,  and  kissed  her  cheek,  and  drew  her  inside, 
infinitely  astonished.  He  had  impulsively  accused  her  of 
some  horrid  disloyalty,  some  crime  against  him  which  he 
could  not  even  name,  and  of  which  he  did  not  for  a  momen 
believe  her  guilty,  whatever  it  might  be :  and  she  had  con 
fessed  it  in  tears,  and  promised  to  be  "good"  !  They  had  had 
a  battle  over  something  which  neither  of  them  understood, 
some  issue  which  neither  could  believe  really  existed— but 
a  battle  nevertheless— conducted  with  mysterious  threats 
on  both  sides,  and  now  ended  in  tears  and  forgiveness  as 
mysterious!  A  battle  over  what?  He  did  not  know.  He 
only  knew  that  somehow  he  was  the  victor. 

But  how  take  advantage  of  a  victory  which  one  does 
not  understand? 

"Yes,"  said  Rose-Ann  fervently,  kissing  him  amid  her 
tears  with  what  seemed  a  new  access  of  passion.  "How 
foolish  to  think  of  being  apart— even  for  a  while!" 

"Not  foolish,  exactly,"  said  Felix,  beginning  to  be  a 
little  ashamed  of  himself.  "I'm  sorry  I  was  so  unreasonably 
angry  at  you.  ...  I  know  that  love  ought  not  to  be  too 
—too  possessive.  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  I  own 


you' 


r%»  •     •     •     •  . 

"But  you   do  own  me,"  Rose-Ann  whispered,  pressing 
his  hand  against  her  bosom,  "I  am  yours,  all  of  me.     Do 


152  The  Briary-Bush 

you  know  it  ?  Do  you  realize  how  much  I  am  yours,  Felix  ? 
I — it  isn't  enough,  what  I  give  you.  I  want  to  suffer  for 
you,  for  us.  Do  you  understand  that,  Felix  ?" 

No,  Felix  did  not  really  understand  that  cry  from  the 
depths  below  Rose-Ann's  conscious  thoughts  of  life  and 
love;  but  then,  neither  did  Rose- Ann. 


Book  Four 
Fifty-seventh  Street 


XXI.  Advancement 


WHEN  they  took  the  train  to  town  on  Monday 
morning,  the  question  of  where  they  were  to 
live  was  still  undecided.  Rose-Ann  had  put  the 
matter  unreservedly  in  Felix's  hands;  she  had  told  him  in 
detail  and  without  prejudice  the  merits  and  demerits  of  the 
various  apartments  she  had  seen.  But  he  felt  incompetent 
to  arrive  at  a  decision  in  such  a  matter;  and  after  all,  he 
did  not  want  to  do  anything  which  would  not  have  Rose- 
Ann's  real  approval.  He  distrusted  this  mood  of  utter 
surrender  to  his  will,  and  he  sought  to  make  her  reassume 
the  burden  of  judgment. 

He  suggested  again  the  possibility  of  having  a  house  in 
the  country ;  and  she  discussed  that  possibility  in  a  practical 
spirit.  They  could  rent  some  small  house  in  Woods  Point 
for  the  summer;  it  would  cost  only  a  hundred  dollars  or 
so  for  the  season— or  they  might  find  something  they  liked 
that  was  for  sale. 

It  was  easier  to  buy  a  house,  it  appeared,  than  Felix  had 
thought;  there  was  usually  a  mortgage  to  be  taken  over, 
and  one  needed  only  keep  up  the  interest  on  that ;  the  actual 
cash  need  be  only  a  little,  five  hundred  dollars,  or  at 
most  a  thousand.  To  Felix  this  seemed  a  great  deal,  but 
Rose-Ann  explained  casually  that  she  could  borrow  it  from 
her  brothers  in  Springfield,  and  if  need  be  give  a  second 
mortgage ;  so  that  only  the  interest  would  have  to  be  paid 
for  the  time  being.  And  the  interest  on  both  debts  would 
be  less  than  the  rent  they  would  pay  in  town. 

Felix  had  never  understood  these  things  very  well,  and 
buying  a  house  seemed  amazingly  simple — one  need  not 
work  and  save  for  years,  one  bought  the  house  first,  even 

iS5 


156  The  Briary-Bush 

though  one  had  no  money !  Of  course,  there  were  the  mort 
gages,  of  which  Felix  retained  a  somewhat  sinister  notion 
from  his  childhood  fiction-reading;  but  Rose- Ann  seemed  to 
regard  them  as  a  commonplace.  ... 

If  he  only  knew  what  she  really  wanted! 

It  ended  by  his  suggesting,  half -jestingly,  that  they 
go  and  live  in  a  hotel  until  they  could  decide  what  to  do; 
and  she  agreed,  saying  that  she  knew  of  a  good  family  hotel, 
in  Hyde  Park,  not  expensive — the  St.  Dunstan.  So  it  was 
at  the  St.  Dunstan  that  they  engaged,  by  telephone  from 
Woods  Point,  a  room  for  the  following  week.  During 
that  week  Rose- Ann  could  settle  up  her  affairs  at  Community 
House,  Felix  could  get  reacquainted  with  his  job,  and  they 
could  decide  on  a  place  to  live. 


They  parted  at  the  station,  and  Felix  went  to  the  office. 
It  was  strange  to  take  his  place  at  his  desk  again.  It  seemed 
as  though  he  had  been  away  a  thousand  years;  he  had 
the  feeling  of  a  truant  who  has  returned  to  school  and 
wonders  if  he  will  ever  catch  up  with  his  lessons.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Devoe  had  said  to  come  in  and  see  him  when  he  got 
back.  But  Harris  sent  him  out  on  an  interview  the  first 
thing,  and  when  he  had  finished  writing  it,  Mr.  Devoe  was 
out  in  the  composing  room  overseeing  some  change  in  the 
editorial  page.  Felix  did  not  like  to  bother  him.  Doubtless 
he  had  spoken  lightly,  and  had  already  forgotten  what  he 
had  said  to  Felix. 

As  Felix  sat  idly  before  his  typewriter,  Hawkins  came  up. 
"Glad  to  see  you  back,"  he  said,  and  shook  hands.  And 
then :  "Come  in  my  office,  will  you  ?" 

One  of  the  last  things  Felix  had  done  before  falling 
ill  was  to  "do"  a  play  for  Hawkins,  on  a  night  when 
there  were  two  openings.  His  way  of  doing  plays  was  so 
unlike  Hawkins's  serious  method  of  assigning  praise  and 
blame  that  he  had  been  afraid  Hawkins  would  never  ask 
him  to  do  another;  but  he  had  been  encouraged  by  Willie's 
laughter  at  his  piece  of  foolery,  and  dive's  only  half -ironical 


Advancement  157 

remark:  "When  Willie  Smith  enjoys  a  piece  of  writing, 
you  can  figure  on  ten  thousand  other  people  liking  it,  too !" 
The  idea  of  those  ten  thousand  other  people  liking  his 
whimsical  criticism  had  offset  the  supposedly  unfavorable 
judgment  of  the  serious  Hawkins. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Hawkins.  "I  suppose"— with ^  an  em 
barrassed  air— "you've  heard  I'm  writing  a  play."  Then, 
more  cheerfully,  "Well,  I  want  to  get  as  much  time  away 
from  the  office  as  possible,  so  I've  persuaded  Devoe  to  let 
me  have  an  assistant.  Would  you  like  the  job?" 

Felix  flushed  with  incredulous  pleasure.  "All  right," 
Hawkins  went  on.  "There's  a  certain  amount  of  detail  to 
be  attended  to— making  up  the  Saturday  dramatic  page, 
selecting  the  pictures  and  arranging  the  layout,  seeing 
publicity  people  or  letting  them  see  you,  once  a  week— 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  can  take  all  that  off  my  hands, 
besides  doing  some  of  the  shows  for  me.  There's  two 
opening  tonight,  and  I'd  like  to  have  you  do  one  of  them  " 
He  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  took  out  two  envelopes.  A  litLc 
apologetically,  he  said,  "I'm  sending  you  to  the  one  I  don't 
want  to  do  myself— but  you'll  get  a  chance  at  the  real  shows 
a  little  later.  All  right?" 

"I'm— everlastingly  grateful  to  you,"  said  Felix.  "Is  this 
all  settled  with — with  Mr.  Devoe?" 

"Oh,  yes.  You  made  quite  a  hit  with  the  Old  Man,  you 
know—something  you  wrote  in  that  thing  you  did  for  me 
—something  about  the  fatted  laugh  and  the  prodigal  joke 

I  forget,  but  he  went  around  the  shop  all  morning  that 

day  repeating  it  to  everybody.  Yes,  the  Old  Man  thinks 
you're  all  right.  You'd  better  go  in  and  see  him ;  not  now 
—I  want  to  tell  you  some  more  about  this  job.  Have  a 
cigarette?" 

It  appeared  that  Felix  was  to  commence  his  duties  at  once, 
taking  a  desk  in  Hawkins'  office  and  the  title  of  assistant 
dramatic  editor.  He  would  be  relieved  of  his  regular  work 
as  a  reporter,  but  he  would  be  expected  to  help  along  a  little 
with  the  editorial  page,  especially  in  the  summer,  when  there 
would  be  hardly  any  theatrical  stuff  to  take  care  of.  And 


158  The  Briary-Bush 

there  was  to  be  a  small  raise  in  salary ;  he  would  get  thirty 
dollars  a  week — to  begin  with,  as  Hawkins  put  it. 

These  happy  prospects  were  confirmed  by  a  brief  interview 
with  Mr.  Devoe,  who  seemed  to  beam  on  Felix  with  paternal 
benevolence.  "I  think  we've  found  the  right  place  for  you," 
he  said.  And  then  his  eyes  narrowed  and  his  lips 
straightened.  "You  can  prove  whether  we  are  right  or  not," 
he  said  sternly,  and  held  out  his  hand  in  a  formal  gesture. 

"Yes,  sir — thank  you !"  said  Felix,  a  little  frightened,  and 
went  out. 


Felix  went  to  Canal  street  that  afternoon  to  remove  his 
things  and  give  up  the  room.  He  told  the  news  of  his 
marriage  and  advancement  to  Roger  and  Don  with  some 
thing  of  the  feeling  of  revisiting  the  scenes  of  childhood  and 
finding  one's  old  friends  still  playing  at  marbles,  astonishingly 
•:•  ot  grown  up.  But  Roger  and  Don  did  not  sense  his  secret 
scorn ;  at  least  they  maintained  their  customary  imperturbable 
air. 

"Rose-Ann  Prentiss?  Who  is  she?  What  does  she  do?" 
they  asked,  and  when  they  learned  that  she  was  not  an 
artist,  not  a  writer,  not  even  an  interior  decorator,  they 
raised  their  eyebrows  and  went  back  to  their  Flaubert. 

Rose- Ann  herself,  that  night,  took  his  news  calmly  enough. 
It  seemed  that  there  was  no  surprising  her  with  any  such  good 
fortune;  it  was  as  if  she  had  expected  it  all  along! 

She  dressed  with  particular  care  for  dinner  and  the 
theatre  that  evening,  considering  and  rejecting  half  a  dozen 
frocks  before  she  decided  upon  a  quite  simple  tight-bodiced 
black  velvet  thing  that  made  her  seem  very  pale  and  her  hair 
a  flaming  red.  This  was  the  first  time  that  Felix  had  seen 
her  wardrobe,  and  he  was  much  impressed.  "I've  never  seen 
you  in  anything  but  your  working  clothes,  have  I !"  he 
laughed.  "I  like  you,  dressed  up !" 

"Oh,  these  are  all  old  things,"  she  said ;  and  Felix  wondered 
why  women  always  said  that,  when  one  praised  anything 
they  wore.  "But,"  she  said,  "I  do  look  rather  nice  in  this 


Advancement  159 

evening  dress,"  and  she  held  up  a  shimmering  fluid  thing 
of  blue  and  silver  that  did  not  seem  to  Felix  like  a  dress 
at  all,  but  like  a  moonlit  fountain  dripping  silver  spray. 
"I'd  wear  this  if  you'd  get  some  evening  clothes  yourself/' 

"What  do  I  want  of  evening  clothes?"  he  protested,  his 
pleasure  in  the  sight  of  that  lovely  garment  gone  with  the 
threatening  onset  of  sartorial  obligations  of  his  own. 

"I  should  think  a  dramatic  critic  might  very  well  have 
evening  clothes,"  said  Rose-Ann  mildly. 

"I'm  only  half  a  dramatic  critic,"  objected  Felix. 

"Well,"  said  Rose-Ann,  "that  being  the  case,  I  wouldn't 
insist  on  full-dress.  I'll  be  content  if  you  come  half  way. 
I  mean,  dinner  clothes.  It's  the  silly  long-tailed  coat  that 
you  object  to,  isn't  it?  I  don't  like  it  myself.  Dinner 
clothes  would  be  very  becoming  to  you,  though." 

"But  I  haven't  any  money—  "  he  began. 

"Felix,"  she  said,  "how  many  times  must  we  argue  that 
out?  If  you  haven't  any  money,  I  have— not  much,  but 
enough  to  get  ourselves  started  on.  And  do  you  want  me 
to  let  it  lie  in  the  bank  at  Springfield  while  we  do  without 
things  we  need?  You  want  me  to  look  nice,  don't  you? 
And  if  I  didn't  have  a  decent  dress  to  go  to  the  theatre  with 
you  in,  and  you  could  help  me  get  one,  you'd  want  to, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"Do  I  look  so  bad  as  all  that?"  he  asked,  looking  down 
at  his  rather  worn  blue  serge  suit. 

"You  look  very  nice,  Felix,"  she  said,  coming  over  and 
kissing  him.  "But  you  do  need  some  new  clothes,  that's 
a  fact.  And  really,  if  you're  going  to  be  a  dramatic  critic — . 
As  long  as  we  bought  our  own  seats,  in  the  balcony,  it  was 
all  right  to  go  in  our  'working  clothes.'  But  I  think— 

"Oh,  all  right!"  he  said  gloomily. 

4 

Nevertheless,  the  prospect  of  evening  clothes  did  not 
spoil  his  enjoyment  of  the  play  and  Rose-Ann.  It  was 
a  rather  silly  play,  and  they  bubbled  over  with  amused 
comments  upon  it  on  their  way  back  to  the  St.  Dunstan. 


160  The  Briary-Bush 

"I  must  remember  all  these  things,  and  put  them  into  my 
criticism,"  he  remarked. 

"Why  don't  you  write  it  tonight,"  she  said. 

"At  the  hotel  ?     I  haven't  a  typewriter,  for  one  thing." 

"But  I  have  mine.  Why  don't  you  say  it  off  to  me,  and  I'll 
take  it  down.  Then  you'll  have  it  over  with,  and  we  can 
mail  it  tonight,  and  then  we  can  talk  as  late  as  we  want 
to,  without  having  to  think  of  getting-up-time  in  the  morning. 
Now  that  you're  a  dramatic  critic,  you  don't  have  to  keep 
such  regular  working  hours." 

Really,  it  seemed  an  admirable  plan.  "But  won't  the 
other  people  in  the  hotel  object  to  a  typewriter  being 
pounded  at  this  hour  of  the  night?" 

"Let  them!  If  they  complain,  we'll  say  we're  sorry,  and 
promise  not  to  do  it  again!  And  by  the  next  time,  we'll 
be  in  some  place  of  our  own  where  we  can  pound  a  typewriter 
all  night  if  we  want  to — I  hope !" 

Felix  stored  that  away  in  his  memory  as  one  of  Rose- 
Ann's  specifications  for  a  place  to  live — a  place  where  one 
could  run  a  typewriter  all  night.  ...  It  was  going  to  be 
hard  to  find  such  a  place ! 

Rose-Ann  exchanged  her  black  velvet  frock  for  a  flame- 
coloured  kimono — which,  as  he  noted,  matched  her  hair 
when  the  light  shone  through  its  stray  curls — and  sat  down 
at  the  typewriter. 

"Ready !" 

Felix  dictated  for  half  an  hour,  only  occasionally  thinking 
of  their  neighbours  on  the  other  side  of  these  thin  hotel 
partitions.  Still,  it  was  not  yet  midnight.  "I  guess  that's 
enough,"  he  said  at  last. 

"A  good  line  to  end  on,"  she  agreed,  finishing  the  sentence 
and  typing  his  name  underneath.  "There  are  stamps  in  my 
pocketbook,  Felix — and  here's  your  envelope,  all  addressed. 
It  will  make  the  one  o'clock  collection,  and  we  can  breakfast 
at  leisure." 

"But,"  he  said,  pausing  at  the  door,  "suppose  it  got  lost  in 
the  mails  or  something !" 

"I  made  a  carbon,"  said  Rose- Ann,  "and  you  can  take  that 


Advancement  161 

with  you  when  you  go  to  the  office,  in  case  of  emergencies/' 
"You  are  an  efficient  little  manageress !"  he  said. 

5 

Obediently  the  next  day  he  went  to  a  tailor — recommended 
by  Clive,  who  seemed  heartily  to  approve  of  this  particular 
surrender  to  convention — and  was  measured  for  a  dinner 
coat,  and  a  new  loose-fitting  suit  of  brown  homespun  selected 
by  Rose-Ann. 

He  found  he  did  not  mind  the  idea  of  wearing  evening 
clothes  after  all.  He  only  wished  that — well,  that  he  was 
going  to  pay  for  them  himself ! 


XXII.  Mainly  About  Clothes 


AND  still  they  found  no  place  to  live,  and  their  week  at 
the  St.  Dunstan  became  as  second,  and  a  third. 
They  went  together  to  look  at  dozens  of  apartments. 
Rose-Ann  was  observantly  critical  of  their  good  and  bad 
features,  and  yet  extremely  complaisant;  he  felt  that  she 
would  have  agreed  to  anything  he  wanted.     But  he  had  not 
forgotten  her  fierce   discontent  at  "ordinary"  apartments, 
and  he  was  looking  for  something  that  would  really  please 
her.     He  felt  that  he  had  not  found  it  yet.  .  .  . 

And  no  one  at  the  St.  Dunstan  had  objected  to  the  noise 
of  their  typewriter  on  occasional  evenings.  They  could 
have  breakfast  brought  up  and  set  down  on  a  tray  at  their 
bedside,  a  breakfast  of  cool  grapefruit  and  elaborately  dis 
guised  eggs  and  coffee  with  cream,  and  linger  over  their 
last  sip  of  coffee  and  a  final  cigarette  before  dressing  lazily ; 
and  Felix  could  stroll  into  the  office  at  ten  o'clock,  like 
Hawkins — a  free  man  and  not  a  hurried,  anxious  slave. 

Felix  had  at  first  felt  a  little  guilty  about  these  late 
appearances,  when  everybody  else  had  been  at  work  for 
hours ;  but  it  was  apparently  expected  of  him  that  he  would 
take  due  advantage  of  the  opportunities  for  leisure  that 
the  position  gave.  So  long  as  he  did  his  work,  it  did  not 
matter  when  he  came  or  went;  Hawkins  himself  did  not 
show  up  every  day — and  there  was  that  god-like  being, 
the  literary  editor,  McQuish,  he  who  had  taught  the  Chicago 
intelligentsia  to  speak  of  their  "reactions"  and  of  being 
"intrigued":  he  fulminated  his  Wednesday  critiques  locked 
in  his  office  on  Tuesday  afternoon  and  except  for  his  Tues 
day  arrival  and  departure  was  never  seen  around  the  place 
at  all! 

162 


Mainly  About  Clothes  163 

Felix's  new  loose-fitting  homespun  clothes,  with  their  air 
of  having  been  worn  in  to  town  from  a  country-club, 
helped  Felix  to  feel  the  rightful  possessor  of  this  leisure, 
and  to  assume  its  proper  air.  Silk  shirts  with  soft  collars, 
and  Windsor  ties,  bought  by  Rose-Ann,  and  approved  by 
Give,  helped  still  more. 

After  all,  if  the  management  liked  his  work,  if  he  was 
no  longer  on  trial,  but  an  accepted  person,  privileged  to 
do  about  as  he  pleased,  why  should  he  maintain  his  old 
anxieties  and  disguises?  Why  try  to  look  like  an  efficient 
young  business  man?  Nobody  wanted  him  to!  Why  not 
be  comfortable,  in  a  soft  collar  and  homespun  clothes? 
Yes,  why  not? 

In  this  mood,  he  bought  himself  a  stick,  on  his  own 
initiative.  ...  He  had  always  wanted  to  carry  a  stick, 
and  had  never  quite  dared.  His  clothes  had  never  been 
quite  up  to  it.  Perhaps  they  were  not  quite  up  to  it  now. 
But  there  was  nothing  dandified  about  this  stick;  it  was 
no  silver-plated  confection,  just  a  simple  stick  of  light 
bamboo,  covered  with  a  shiny  black  lacquer — a  real  stick. 
It  suited  him;  he  liked  the  smooth  firm  lacquered  surface, 
he  liked  the  feel  of  it  in  his  hand,  lightly  swinging,  or  hang 
ing  from  the  crook  of  his  arm.  And  Rose-Ann  liked  it, 
too.  He  felt  that  it  gave  him  the  touch  of  confidence 
he  had  lacked  in  his  new  position ;  with  that  stick  on  his  arm, 
he  could  saunter  into  the  Chronicle  office  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning  without  a  qualm. 


Just  after  his  evening  clothes  were  finished,  they  were 
invited  casually  to  one  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howard  Morgan's 
evenings,  and  Felix  was  assured  by  Rose-Ann  that  it  was 
an  occasion  which  a  dinner  coat  would  appropriately  grace ; 
she  also  remarked  that  ordinary  clothes  would  be  all  right. 
That  seemed  to  make  it  rather  a  test  of  his  moral  courage, 
and  so  he  wore  his  evening  clothes.  .  .  . 

Howard  Morgan  was  a  poet,  one  of  the  few  in  America 
for  whom  Felix  had  any  respect.  Felix  had  been  introduced 


164  The  Briary-Bush 

to  him  once,  under  rather  inauspicious  circumstances — < 
one  evening  when,  deep  in  kalsomine,  he  was  painting  a 
back  drop  for  Rose-Ann  in  the  little  Community  Theatre, 
which  the  great  man  was  being  shown,  in  what  was 
apparently  a  tour  of  inspection  of  Community  House. 
Rose-Ann  had  met  him  then,  too,  and,  less  abashed  by 
her  kalsomine-smeared  apron  and  hastily  turbaned  hair, 
had  talked  with  him;  and  he  had  remembered  her,  and 
sent  a  message  by  some  one  in  Community  House  to  come 
up  to  his  next  "Friday  evening"  and  bring  her  husband. 

Felix  was  glad  to  pay  his  respects  to  this  distinguished 
personage,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  crowd  of  people 
who  filled  the  Morgans'  drawing-room;  he  hated  crowds. 
But,  after  Mrs.  Morgan  had  introduced  him  to  an  elderly 
and  talkative  spinster,  and  then,  as  he  felt,  basely  deserted 
him,  he  was  rescued  by  Rose-Ann ;  steered  through  a 
whirlpool  of  encounters — he  almost  failed  to  recognize  Clive 
Bangs  in  his  evening  clothes,  with  that  wild  lock  of  hair 
neatly  slicked  into  its  proper  place — and  brought  into  the 
presence  of  Howard  Morgan  himself,  who  was  standing,  a 
tall  and  impressive  figure,  with  grey  hair,  a  nose  like  an 
eagle's  beak,  and  flashing  eyes,  in  the  midst  of,  as  it  seemed 
to  Felix,  swirling  tides  of  people.  Morgan  turned  from 
two  women,  one  very  old  and  the  other  very  young,  with 
whom  he  was  conducting  two  different  conversations  at  once 
— a  flirtatious  one  with  the  aged  dame  and  a  very  earnest 
and  serious  one  with  the  young  girl. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  you,  you  were  painting  scenery," 
he  said,  smilingly  extending  his  hand. 

"Yes,"  said  Felix,  flushing. 

"And  now  I  read  your  dramatic  criticisms  in  the 
Chronicle,"  said  Howard  Morgan.  "You  seem  to  have  a 
multitude  of  talents!  No  wonder  you  have  captured  that 
lovely  prize! — She  is  lovely,  isn't  she?"  he  added,  in  a 
tone  of  man-to-manly  confidence,  looking  after  Rose- Ann, 
who  had  floated  away  in  that  dress  which  was  like  moonlit 
falling  water. 

"Yes,"  said  Felix,  feeling  very  stupid. 


Mainly  About  Clothes  165 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Meagham?  Mr.  Fay.  .  .  ."  And 
the  great  man,  who  had  retained  Felix's  hand  in 
his,  pressed  it  warmly,  smiled  with  his  big  delicately-carven 
mouth  and  his  cavernous,  flashing  eyes,  and  -turned  back  to 
resume  with  instant  interest  his  conversations  with  the  young 
woman  and  the  old  one,  not  to  speak  of  a  third  who  came 
up  and  was  welcomed  heartily  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence; 
leaving  Felix  to  the  mercies  of  Mrs.  Meagham. 

It  appeared  that  Mrs.  Meagham  had  no  wish  to  detain 
Felix  Fay ;  it  was  the  great  man,  Howard  Morgan,  that  she 
wanted  to  talk  to.  And  Felix  had  no  wish  to  prevent  her 
— none  whatever;  only  he  was  between  her  and  the  great 
man  and  he  didn't  know  how  to  get  out  of  the  way. 

How  does  one  leave  a  lady  whom  one  does  not  want  to 
talk  to,  and  who  obviously  enough  reciprocates  that  lack 
of  interest?  Felix  hadn't  the  slightest  idea.  ...  He 
ransacked  his  memory  of  books— while  saying  to  Mrs. 
Meagham  that  no,  he  had  not  lived  in  Chicago  long — for 
something  to  help  him.  Surely  in  all  the  novels  he  had 
read  there  must  be  something  bearing  upon  this  situation! 
But  the  only  thing  he  could  remember  was  the  desperate 
device  of  H.  G.  Wells'  Mr.  Polly,  who  upon  one  embarrassing 
occasion  murmured  to  the  young  woman  something  about 
a  "little  dog,"  and  ran  out  of  the  house.  But  then,  Mr. 
Polly  had  a  bicycle,  and  he  was  pretending  that  he  heard  a 
little  dog  gnawing  at  the  tires.  No — that  would  not  do 
at  all.  He  suddenly  felt  that  H.  G.  Wells  was  but  a  poor 
guide  and  mentor  in  the  thorny  ways  of  real  life.  Perhaps 
if  he  had  forced  himself  to  read  more  of  Henry  James — ! 

At  this  stage,  when  he  felt  his  reason  going,  Rose-Ann 
appeared,  radiant  and  cool,  to  his  rescue.  He  was  so  grateful 
that  he  forgot  to  note  how  she  did  it.  ...  It  had  been 
easy  enough,  apparently ;  no  such  heroic  task  as  it  appeared. 
But  then,  things  like  that  were  easy,  to  anybody  except 
himself ! 

And  he  had  not  told  Howard  Morgan  how  much  he  liked 
— how  devoutly  he  knew  by  heart — the  magnificent  "Ode 
in  the  Valle>  of  Decision."  No,  he  had  stood  there  saying, 


166  The  Briary-Bush 

"Yes,"  like  a  fool,  while  a  great  poet  paid  him  compliments ! 
He  thought  a  little  the  less  of  Howard  Morgan  for  those 
compliments;  they  were  so  obviously  a  product  of  the 
occasion,  a  few  out  of  the  hundred  he  had  uttered  that  night 
— two  or  three  around  to  everybody,  share  and  share  alike ! 
They  were  none  the  less  banal  because  he  uttered  them 
with  such  pretended  sincerity  and  real  grace.  What  madness 
such  a  scene  was !  To  think  of  men  and  women  deliberately 
inflicting  upon  themselves  such  painful  mockery  of  social 
intercourse !  But  perhaps  it  was  not  painful  to  them.  No, 
they  actually  appeared  to  enjoy  it.  Well — that  proved 
that  they  were  mad!  Bedlam!  And  a  great  poet  con 
demned  to  go  through  this  rigmarole,  so  abominable  to  any 
person  of  decent  sensitiveness !  But  perhaps  he  enjoyed 
it,  too?  In  truth,  he  did  seem  to  be  enjoying  it  vastly. 
Then  he  was  no  poet,  but  a  sham.  ...  A  line  of  the 
great  Ode  came  into  Felix's  mind,  one  of  the  magnificent 
lines:  he  said  it  over  to  himself,  testing  it — and  it  did 
sound  rather  tinny.  Milton  and  some  base  amalgam,  not 
true  gold.  .  .  .  An  actor,  the  fellow  was,  strutting  and 
smirking  and  kissing  ladies'  hands.  .  .  .  Still — if  it  were 
a  thing  that  had  to  be  done  (like  wearing  evening  clothes, 
for  instance)  doubtless  the  more  gracefully  it  was  done 
the  better.  And  Howard  Morgan — it  must  be  conceded 
— did  it  superlatively  well!  .  .  .  Would  Rose- Ann  never 
be  ready  to  go  home? 

Rose- Ann,  in  their  room*  afterward,  remarked  upon  how 
well  Howard  Morgan  had  "played  the  host." 

"Yes,"  said  Felix.  "...  I  felt  utterly  lost,  myself." 
She  turned  to  him  fondly.  "You  were  doing  very  well, 
darling.  I  noticed  at  the  time.  It's  just  your  inexperience 
that  made  you  feel  a  trifle  ill  at  ease.  With  a  little  more 
experience,  you  will  be  quite  as  charming  as  Howard  Morgan. 
More  so,  darling!" 

3 

Tell   one   whom   you   have  caused  to   be  waylaid   and 
tortured  by  cruel  savages,  that  he  has  passed  through  the 


Mainly  About  Clothes  167 

incident  very  creditably;  tell  him  that  with  a  little  more 
practice  he  will  be  able  to  wear  the  true  martyr's  look  of  joy ! 
And  then  kiss  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  pretend  that  you  love 
him,  that  you  are  the  wife  of  his  bosom.  Ah,  serpent! 
Delilah! 

That  was  the  way  Felix  felt  as  he  lay  sleeplessly  at 
Rose- Ann's  side  that  night ;  but  he  knew  perfectly  well  why 
he  felt  that  way.  He  was  just  looking  for  an  excuse  to 
get  out  of  taking  a  little  trouble.  ...  Of  course  things 
like  that  went  hard,  at  first;  so  was  walking  hard  to  a 
child  who  had  just  begun  fearfully  to  stand  upon  its  two 
feet;  so  was  breathing  hard  at  first  for  the  new-born 
infant — did  it  not  greet  the  world  with  a  cry  of  pain  ?  Yes, 
life  was  hard ;  that  was  why  it  was  so  interesting.  It  would 
be  dull  if  one  never  did  anything  one  was  afraid  to  do.  .  .  . 
And  why,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  should  he  still  find  it 
an  agony  to  meet  a  roomful  of  people?  .  .  .  No,  confound 
it,  that  wasn't  true!  There  were  roomfuls  of  people  he 
could  meet,  with  pleasure;  it  was  these  people — they  meant 
nothing  to  him,  he  nothing  to  them.  ...  Or  was  it  just 
egotism?  Was  it  because  he  was  nothing  to  them,  that 
he  resented  their  presence?  Was  it  just  the  feeling  of 
mother's  little  boy  who  goes  out  to  play  and  finds  that 
instead  of  being  the  Young  Prince,  he  is  only  one  of  a 
crowd?  He  remembered  his  first  day  in  school — the 
humiliation  of  suddenly  finding  himself  nobody  in 
particular!  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  gone  there  that  evening  as  if 
he  alone  in  the  world  had  ever  admired  Howard  Morgan 
— and  found  himself  merely  one  of  dozens.  He  had  hoped 
to  impress  the  great  man  by  his  admiration ;  and  he  had 
found  his  admiration  not  at  all  needed.  That  was  why 
he  was  angry  at  his  hero !  .  .  .  And  then,  too,  perhaps 
a  little  jealous.  As  if  he  had  thought,  "I  could  get  the 
same  kind  of  worship  if  I  would  condescend  to  pay  for 
it  in  the  same  way  you  do!"  But  could  he?  Was  he, 
too,  in  spite  of  his  protestations  to  Rose-Ann,  secretly 
dreaming  of  greatness?  Was  it  because  this  man  dared 
admit  himself  a  poet,  a  creator,  a  Somebody,  that  Felix 


168  The  Briary-Bush 

Fay  disliked  him? — And  what  was  he  doing  to  realize 
those  dreams?  It  was  all  very  well  to  say,  "Some  day!" 
But — no,  his  destiny  wasn't  just  writing  silly-clever  things 
for  the  Chronicle.  But  what  was  it?  Rose- Ann  believed 
in  him.  Did  he  believe  in  himself? 

And  all  this  was  far  enough  away  from  the  question 
at  issue:  which  was  very  simple — in  fact,  it  resolved  itself 
down  to  one  thing — doing  what  Rose-Ann  wanted  him 
to  do!  Not  because  she  was  his  wife;  not  at  all  because 
he  loved  her;  but  because  she  -  understood  life  better  than 
he  did.  .  .  . 

He  must  never  let  her  know  what  a  baby  he  was  about 
things  like  these.  What  a  silly  fuss  he  had  been  making 
about  nothing  at  all!  He  must  do  what  was  expected  of 
him:  yes,  confound  it,  and  if  she  wanted  a  house  like 
the  Morgans',  and  crowds  of  people  ...  he  could  see  with 
half-dreaming  mind  her  white  shoulders,  her  eyes,  her  red- 
gold  hair,  gleaming  in  their  midst — why,  she  should  have 
them!  .  .  .  even  if  he  had  to  "play  the  host,"  like  Howard 
Morgan,  for  her. 

.  .  .  He  fell  asleep  and  awoke  dreaming  that  he  was  a 
little  boy,  who  was  captured  by  savages  and  tortured,  and 
who  endured  it  all  with  a  smile  for  the  sake  of  their 
Queen,  a  girl  with  white  shoulders  and  red  hair,  who  had 
promised  to  tell  him  a  secret  if  he  was  brave.  And  he 
said :  "I  know  your  secret !  You  are  all  the  women  I  have 
ever  known;  you  are  the  little  girl  I  was  afraid  to  walk  to 
school  with,  and  you  are  the  girl  I  played  with  in  the 
garret  and  was  afraid  to  go  to  meet  for  a  farewell  kiss, 
and  you  are  Margaret,  the  girl  in  the  candy-factory  that  I 
was  afraid  to  write  to,  and  you  are  the  girl  in  Port  Royal 
that  I  was  afraid  to  ask  to  marry  me."  And  she  said, 
"Yes,  but  I  have  one  more  secret."  "I  know  that,  too," 
he  said.  "You  are  Life!" 

A  very  literary  dream!  He  wasn't  sure,  when  he  woke 
up  at  dawn,  but  that  he  had  made  it  up  like  a  story.  Any 
way,  he  understood  it,  and  he  didn't  want  to  forget  it, 
and  he  was  writing  it  down  hastily  on  sheets  of  hotel 


Mainly  About  Clothes  169 

stationery  when  Rose-Ann  opened  her  eyes  sleepily  at  eight 
o'clock.  .  .  .  She  opened  her  eyes  sleepily,  but  sleep 
vanished  when  she  saw  what  he  was  doing,  and  she  sat  up 
eagerly  in  bed. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  looking  as  though  an  expected,  long- 
awaited  miracle  had  happened  at  last. 

"What?"  he  asked,  startled. 

"You're  writing  again! — writing,  I  mean,  for  your 
self.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  he  said  crossly. 

"Nothing,"     she    said.     "Only — I    knew    you    would!" 


XXIII.  A  Bargain  in  Utopias 


BUT,  even  though  life  was  much  easier  than  he  had 
ever  dreamed  it  to  be,  though  one  could  acquire  a 
lovely  wife  without  deserving  her,  an  easy  job  without 
asking  for  it,  and  a  house  in  the  country,  if  one  wished, 
without  money — still,  the  fact  remained  that  he  was  only 
a  young  newspaper  man  getting  thirty  dollars  a  week.  And 
thirty  dollars  a  week  meant  that  he  could  afford  to  pay  only 
thirty  dollars  a  month  for  rent :  he  had  read  that  in  a  book, 
and  it  seemed  like  good  sound  economics.  And  thirty  dollars 
a  month  would  cover  only  the  poorest  and  most  cramped 
of  the  apartments  that  Rose- Ann  had  viewed  so  judicially 
and,  he  felt,  with  secret  disdain.  By  no  stretch  even  of  an 
magination  keyed  to  the  marvellous  by  recent  events,  could 
he  see  himself  getting  a  place  to  live  in  that  Rose-Ann  would 
really  approve.  .  .  .  And  meanwhile  they  were  living  above 
their  means — above  his  means,  anyway — at  the  St.  Dunstan. 
It  was  their  fourth  week  there,  and  they  were  no  nearer 
to  finding  a  place  to  live  in  than  they  had  been  when  they 
came.  Something  had  to  happen  pretty  soon. 

He  reminded  himself  that  when  he  came  to  Chicago  he 
had  not  expected  such  hospitality,  such  friendship,  such 
help  as  he  had  actually  received;  he  had  never  dreamed  of 
getting  a  job  on  the  Chronicle,  nor  of  being  made  assistant 
dramatic  critic  .  .  .  and  least  of  all  had  he  dreamed  of 
having  Rose- Ann  for  a  wife!  Such  things  happened,  it 
seemed — happened  to  one  in  spite  of  one's  stupidities  and 
suspicions  and  fears.  Perhaps  Rose- Ann's  grand  house 
would  drop  from  the  sky  in  the  same  way;  perhaps! — but 
to  one  whose  mind  was  trained  sternly  in  old-fashioned 
nineteenth  century  realism,  it  seemed  merely  silly  .  .  .  and 

170 


A  Bargain  in  Utopias  171 

a  little  worse  than  that.  He  would  give  one  more  day  to 
the  deities  that  presided  over  his  fantastic  fortunes,  and 
then  he  would  take  the  next  thirty-dollar-a-month  apartment 
they  looked  at.  ...  So  much  for  that ! 

They  were  going  to  look  at  some  apartments  on  the  south 
side,  near  Jackson  Park,  and  they  had  planned  to  meet  on 
the  steps  of  the  Field  Museum.  ...  He  was  a  little  early 
when  he  left  the  elevated  at  Fifty-fifth  street,  and  he  strolled 
slowly  over  toward  Jackson  Park  looking  thoughtfully  at  all 
the  apartment  buildings  he  passed.  .  .  .  One,  which  looked 
like  a  place  where  Rose-Ann  might  care  to  live,  was  quite 
obviously  beyond  their  means. 

He  turned  into  Fifty-seventh  street,  and  went  under  the 
Illinois  Central  viaduct,  passing  a  row  of  dingy  brown  one- 
story  shops — at  least,  there  was  a  photographer's  shop  among 
them,  though  the  others  were  apparently  lived  in,  the  big 
plate-glass  windows  in  front  being  covered  with  curtains. 
Felix  wondered  what  kind  of  people  lived  there.  As  he 
reached  the  corner,  just  across  from  the  green  stretch  of 
Jackson  Park,  it  seemed  that  he  had  a  chance  to  find  out, 
for  there  stood  a  young  woman  in  the  doorway  directing 
the  operations  of  a  moving  man  who  was  carrying  things  to 
a  van  in  the  street. 

"Don't  you  dare  drop  those,"  the  young  woman  was  saying. 
"The  frames  are  valuable  anyway!" 

It  was  an  armful  of  large  paintings  that  was  being  carried 
out.  The  young  woman,  a  rather  impressive  little  person, 
with  a  sturdy,  plump  figure,  and  short  curly  black  hair, 
held  a  cigarette  in  her  hand.  A  painter?  Did  artists  live 
in  these  places? 

Felix  glanced  past  the  girl  into  the  room  beyond.  "May 
I  look  in?"  he  asked  the  girl. 

"Sure,"  she  said  indifferently. 

Felix  stepped  inside.  It  was  a  large  room — a  huge  room, 
unpartitioned  except  by  a  flimsy  screen  about  eight  feet  high 
which  cut  off  the  rear  portion.  Evidently  the  occupant  had 
slept  back  there,  and  used  the  front  part  for  a  studio. 

"You're  leaving?"  he  asked  the  girl. 


172  The  Briary-Bush 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.     "Looks  like  it,"  she  said. 

"Is  it  for  rent?" 

Of  course,  Rose-Ann  would  not  want  to  live  in  a  place 
like  that,  but — it  interested  him. 

"Yes,  it's  for  rent,  if  anybody  wants  it,"  she  said  lazily. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  asked  Felix. 

She  seemed  to  become  a  little  more  aware  of  him.  "Are 
you  thinking  of  taking  it?"  she  asked. 

"Maybe,"  said  Felix. 

"If  you  do,  maybe  I  could  persuade  you  to  take  a  few 
things  off  my  hands." 

"What's  wrong  with  the  place?"  he  countered. 

"Nothing's  wrong  with  it,"  she  said. 

"Then  why  are  you  leaving?" 

"Because,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  to  build  my  own  fires. 
I  can't  paint  and  look  after  a  stove,  too.  Want  to  see  my 
stove?  It's  a  good  stove.  I'm  moving  to  a  steam-heated 
studio-apartment,  and  I  shan't  want  it  any  more.  There 
it  is—" 

"Oh,  a  Franklin  stove!"  he  said. 

"Yes,  a  darn  nice  little  stove.     Do  you  paint?" 

"No." 

"Write?" 

"Yes." 

"You'd  like  this  place.  .  .  .     And  it's  dirt  cheap." 

"How  much?" 

"You  wouldn't  believe  it.     Twelve  dollars." 

"Twelve  dollars  a  what?" 

"A  month!" 

"Twelve  dollars  a  month?"  Why,  his  hall  bedroom  over 
on  Canal  street  had  cost  more  than  that.  .  .  . 

"Yes,  and  look  at  the  space.  It's  really  a  find.  If  you 
don't  mind  living  in  a  kind  of  bohemian  way.  I'm  bohemian 
enough,  God  knows,  but  when  I  get  to  painting  I  let  my  fire 
go  out." 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Felix,  "that  there  were  such  places 
as  this  in  Chicago." 

"There  aren't.     There's  just  these.     Here  and  around  the 


A  Bargain  in  Utopias  173 

corner.  They  were  put  up  for  shops  at  the  time  of  the 
World's  Fair — just  temporary  structures — and  they've  never 
bothered  to  tear  'em  down.  There's  been  a  bunch  of  artists 
living  here  ever  since;  a  place  like  this  for  twelve  dollars 
is  a  godsend  to  an  artist.  If  this  was  spring,  it  wouldn't 
be  for  rent — there'd  be  a  dozen  after  it.  Yo'u're  in  luck." 
She  resumed  her  neglected  cigarette  to  keep  it  from  going 
out.  "Well,  what  do  you  say?  Want  my  stove?" 

"I'll — have  to  see  my  wife  about  it,"  said  Felix.  "She's 
waiting  for  me  over  in  the  Park."  No,  Rose-Ann  would  not 
like  it,  but— 

"Your  wife?  Then,  good-night!  No  Christian  female 
would  live  in  these  diggings  for  a  week — unless  she  was  an 
artist's  wife  and  couldn't  help  herself." 

"Why  not?"  Felix  demanded.  Though  this  was  just  what 
he  himself  had  been  conjecturing  about  Rose-Ann's  feelings, 
he  found  himself  resenting  this  girl's  scornful  imputation  to 
her  of  those  same  feelings. 

"Well,  you've  seen  the  place,"  she  said.  "Have  you 
noticed  any  bath-tub?  No — the  people  who  live  in  these 
places  take  their  baths  standing  up  in  that  iron  sink  there 
in  the  back.  Cold  water,  fresh  from  a  very  cold  lake! 
It's  healthy — Spartan  and  all  that — but  no  regular  wife 
would  stand  for  it.  You'll  see.  Bring  her  over  here — I'd 
like  to  watch  her  face  when  you  show  her  around.  I  haven't 
had  a  good  smile  for  a  long  time.  Bring  her  over !" 

"I'll  do  that,"  Felix  said  grimly.     "You  wait." 

"Oh,  I'll  wait.  Here — "  to  the  moving  man — "leave 
that  stove  alone  and  take  a  rest  for  about  five  minutes." 


Felix  had  felt  in  the  attitude  of  this  girl  artist  a  challenge 
to  Rose-Ann  which  he  was  somehow  anxious  for  her  to 
meet.  She  might  not  like  this  place — but  it  would  not  be 
because  she  was  a  bourgeois  doll,  afraid  to  bathe  standing 
up  in  an  iron  sink.  Rose-Ann  would  see  in  this  place  what 
he  saw  in  it,  even  if  she  did  want  something  different.  .  .  . 

"I've  been  to  one  place  already,"  said  Rose-Ann,  rising 


174  The  Briary-Bush 

from  the  steps  and  coming  down  to  meet  him.  "It's — just 
like  all  the  others." 

"Well,"  said  Felix,  his  voice  unconsciously  defiant,  "I've 
found  you  a  place  that's  different!" 

"Have  you  really?     Where  is  it?" 

"Just  over  here.     Right  on  the  edge  of  the  Park." 

"I'd  like  that!" 

"Would  you  like  to  bathe  in  ice-cold  water,  standing  up 
in  a  cast  iron  sink?" 

"Oo!  I  can  feel  the  water  now,  oozing  out  of  a  sponge 
at  the  back  of  my  neck!  What  makes  you  think  I'm  afraid 
of  cold  water?  You  remember  my  snow-baths  at  Woods 
Point?  The  primitive  life  has  no  terrors  for  me — so  far 
as  that's  concerned.  So  there's  no  bathroom?" 

"No." 

"M-m.     Well,  I'll  see." 

"Here  it  is,  then." 

"Oh,  this?     An  unpromising  exterior.  .  .  ." 

"Here,"  said  Felix,  indicating  the  girl,  who  came  to  the 
door,  "is  the  lady  who's  just  leaving.  And  this,"  he  said 
to  the  girl,  "is  my  wife." 

She  stood  aside  and  waved  them  in  with  a  flourish  of 
her  cigarette.  "Well,  here  it  is,  without  one  plea.  See 
for  yourself !" 

"Oh !"  cried  Rose- Ann.     "What  a  lovely  big  room !" 

"It  is  big,"  said  Felix. 

"It's  splendid!  A  real  room.  .  .  ."  She  drew  a  deep 
breath.  "I  could  live  in  a  place  like  this,  Felix." 

The  girl  regarded  her  with  respectful  interest,  and  then 
turned  to  Felix.  "Did  you  tell  her  about  the  sink  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "I  know  about  the  sink.  But  I 
think  I'll  inspect  the  sanitary  details  right  now,  before  I 
get  any  more  enthusiastic." 

The  two  girls  went  back  of  the  screen,  talking  excitedly. 
"Does  the  screen  stay  here  ?"  Rose-Ann  was  asking.  "Good ! 
We'll  sleep  back  here — or  make  it  a  kitchen,  and  sleep  out 
in  front,  I  don't  know  which.  .  .  ." 

Felix  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  laughed  softly  to  himself 


A  Bargain  in  Utopias  175 

at  his  own  folly.  So  this  was  what  Rose- Ann  had  wanted ! 
This  was  the  reality  of  that  supposedly  grandiose  dream 
of  hers,  which  had  frightened  him  so  much  to  think  of 
making  come  true  for  her !  This— twelve  dollars  a  month— 
an  iron  sink — a  Franklin  stove! 

So  the  destinies  that  presided  over  his  fantastic  fortunes 
had  made  good  again. 

How  simple  life  was,  after  all! 


XXIV.  Studio 


THE  girls  came  back  from  inspecting  the  mysteries 
behind    the    screen,     Rose-Ann's     enthusiasm    un- 
diminished.     "Where  is  the  agent?"  she  demanded. 
"We  must  get  this  place  right  away,  before  somebody  else 
does.  .  .  .     You  want  it,  don't  you,  Felix  ?" 

"Oh,  I  wanted  it  all  along,"  said  Felix.     "Only—" 

"You  didn't  think  I  would?  Oh,  Felix!  It's  just  our 
kind  of  place.  And  twelve  dollars  a  month!  And  that 
lovely  stove!" 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  the  stove  ?"  Felix  asked  the 
girl. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  girl.  "Your  wife  and  I 
have  settled  that  between  us." 

"She's  given  us  the  stove  for  a  wedding-present!"  said 
Rose-Ann.  "I  tried  to  buy  it,  but  she  wouldn't  let  me." 

"It's  no  good  to  me  any  more,"  said  the  girl  defensively. 
"And  do  you  mind  if  I  leave  behind  that  old  model  stand? 
You  can  knock  it  to  pieces  and  make  kindling  of  it.  And 
speaking  of  kindling,  there's  a  little  left  there  in  that  box, 
and  about  one  shovelful  of  coal.  I'm  sorry  there  isn't  more 
to  start  you  off  with." 

"You're  a  dear  to  be  so  generous,"  said  Rose- Ann.  "And 
you  will  come  to  see  us?"  She  turned  to  Felix.  "Her 
name  is  Dorothy  Sheridan.  She  rather  likes  us,  I  think, 
Felix.  And  I  like  her  very  much!" 

Felix  and  the  girl  shook  hands  rather  awkwardly.  "I 
take  back  all  I  said  about  your  wife,"  said  Dorothy.  "Hey, 
you !" — to  the  moving  man  who  was  lounging  at  the  door — 
"that's  all.  The  stove  and  the  other  things  stay  here. 
YouVe  got  the  address.  I'll  be  there  to  take  in  the  stuff 

176 


Studio  177 

when  it  comes."  She  held  out  her  hand  to  Rose-Ann. 
"Good-bye.  I'll  drop  in  some  evening  when  you've  got  more 
or  less  settled.  Good-bye!" 


Felix  and  Rose-Ann  went  to  the  landlord  and  were  con 
firmed  in  their  possession  of  the  studio.  They  put  up  the 
Franklin  stove  again,  and  built  a  fire  with  the  remains  of 
Dorothy's  kindling  and  coal,  and  sat  there  till  twilight,  on 
the  low  model-stand,  furnishing  the  room  in  imagina 
tion. 

Felix  was  feeling  a  curious  emotion  which  was  at  once 
an  immense  relief  and  a  dim  perturbation.  He  felt  now 
that  he  had  never  wanted  to  live  in  an  ordinary  apartment. 
He  could  sympathize  now  with  all  the  indignant  things 
Rose-Ann  had  been  saying  about  such  places.  It  would 
have  meant  a  kind  of  surrender — a  giving  up  to  outward 
form  of  the  special  quality  of  their  lives.  .  .  .  But  he 
had  been  willing  to  surrender.  It  was  strange  now  to  real 
ize,  but  it  was  true — he  had  felt  that  very  surrender 
to  be  a  part  of  marriage,  of  adjusting  himself  to  the  world 
of  actuality.  Yes,  he  had  thought  that  he  and  Rose- Ann 
had  to  live  cooped  up  together  in  a  little  domestic  cage 
like  other  married  people. 

And  instead  they  were  to  remain  free! 

For  that  was  what  living  in  a  studio  meant.  They  would 
not  subordinate  their  individual  lives  to  a  domestic 
arrangement.  On  the  contrary,  all  their  domestic  arrange 
ments  were  pushed  into  the  background.  This  was  first 
of  all  a  place  for  them  to  do  their  work  in. 

They  planned  for  their  work-tables  first  of  all — two 
enormous  tables  that  one  could  fill  with  papers  and  books 
to  one's  heart's  content,  and  that  never  were  to  be  disturbed, 
no  matter  how  messy  they  looked:  these,  one  on  either  side 
of  the  room,  up  by  the  front  windows.  And  then,  books 
— all  the  books  they  would  ever  want,  ranged  on  two  long 
shelves  along  the  side-walls.  And  then  two  large  beds, 
at  the  back  of  the  studio,  behind  the  screen — two.  so  that 
they  could  work  as  late  at  night  as  they  wished  and  go 


178  The  Briary-Bush 

to  bed  without  disturbing  each  other.  And;  a  settle  in 
front  of  the  fire,  and  chairs — ordinary  kitchen  chairs  that 
they  would  paint  in  bright  colours — for  rest  and  talk  and 
friends.  And  a  gate-legged  table  that  could  be  pushed  out 
of  the  way  after  dinner,  if  they  dined  at  home.  And  a  tiny 
gas-range,  and  a  cupboard  for  dishes.  Coloured  dishes 
they  would  be — no  two  alike.  "I  hate  sets  of  dishes  as  much 
as  I  hate  sets  of  books,"  said  Rose- Ann.  .  .  .  And  a  tiny 
gas-range. 

That  gas-range  was  to  be  their  least  and  last  possession, 
not  they  its  slaves! 

No,  they  would  be  two  artists  who  lived  together  because 
they  loved  each  other,  who  ate  when  they  were  hungry, 
slept  when  a  chapter  was  finished,  and  cooked  when  they 
thought  it  would  be  fun  to  eat  at  home ! 

"For  instance,"  said  Rose- Ann,  "it  would  be  fun  to  get 
dinner  here  tonight,  but  we  can't.  But  I'll  tell  you — let's 
early  in  the  morning  go  and  buy  beds  and  dishes  and  things, 
so  we  can  move  right  in." 

"Why  not  have  dinner  here  tonight  ?"  said  Felix.  "We  can 
get  it  at  a  delicatessen  and  eat  it  with  our  fingers !" 

"The  electricity  has  been  turned  off — we  can't  eat  in  the 
dark,"  she  said  wistfully. 

"We'll  buy  some  candles!" 

"Of  course!"  said  Rose- Ann. 

They  bought  candles,  and  bread  and  butter,  which  Felix 
cut  and  spread  with  his  pocket-knife,  and  a  variety  of 
delicatessen.  They  made  a  table-cloth  out  of  a  newspaper 
spread  on  the  model-stand,  and  sat  on  the  floor  and  ate 
with  their  fingers,  laughing.  It  made  this  all  the  more  their 
home,  thus  to  pioneer  in  it  the  first  night.  .  .  .  They  put 
on  the  last  of  Dorothy's  coal,  and  then  sat  side  by  side  on 
the  bare  comfortless  model-stand,  and,  still  unable  to  go 
away,  talked  for  hours  of  what  they  would  buy  tomorrow, 
and  where  they  would  put  it,  while  the  grate  cast  flickering 
and  changing  lights  on  the  ceiling.  Then  the  fire  died  down, 
and  the  room  became  cold,  and  they  could  hear  the 
wind  roaring  outside,  and  still  they  sat  there,  huddled  to- 


Studio  179 

gether  for  warmth.  Rose- Ann  fell  asleep  at  last  with  her 
head  on  Felix's  shoulder  and  a  strand  of  her  red  hair  against 
his  lips.  She  slept,  and  shivered  .  .  .  and  he  awoke  her 
with  kisses.  And  only  then,  and  reluctantly,  they  went  back 
to  their  hotel. 


XXV.  St.  George  of  the  Minute 


WITHIN    less    than    two    weeks   the    studio    was 
furnished,   according   to   their   desire;   and    not 
only    furnished,    but    painted    and    kalsomined, 
in  a  light  creamy  yellow  with  a  bright  green-blue  trim — 
a  most  cheerful  and,  as  they  felt,  out-door  effect!     And  old 
Mrs.  Perk  had  been  brought  from  Community  House  to 
sew  the  tall  orange  silk  window-curtains.  .  .  .     ''It's  like 
painting  the  scenery  and  setting  the  stage  for  a  play,"  said 
Rose-Ann.     "Only  this  play  is  to  run  for — for  as  long  as 
we  like." 

When  it  was  all  finished,  "Now  let's  ask  Cfive  out  to  see 
it !"  she  said. 

"Oh— all  right,"  said  Felix. 

"You  haven't  liked  Clive  ever  since  the  wedding,  have 
you?"  observed  Rose- Ann. 

"He  behaved  so  queerly !"  said  Felix.  "But  he  does  seem 
to  have  become  rather  human  again." 

"People  do  behave  queerly  at  weddings,"  said  Rose-Ann. 
"Always.  If  it  isn't  one  way,  it's  another.  They  cry,  or 
get  drunk,  or  something.  There've  been  four  weddings  in 
my  family — five,  with  mine — and  I  can  assure  you  this  one 
was  the  sanest  of  the  lot.  And  they  always  make  the  same 
jokes,  too.  You  remember,  when  Clive  offered  to  marry  me 
himself — I've  heard  that  one  every  time.  I  know  you  were 
bothered;  but  it's  the  regular  thing.  People  can't  help  it. 
And  it's  the  regular  thing,  too,  for  the  groom  to  be  fright 
fully  angry  at  his  best  man." 

"And  it's  the  regular  thing  for  the  young  people  to  be 
perfectly  crazy  about  their  new  house,  too,  I  suppose,"  Felix 

180 


St.  George  of  the  Minute  181 

said  thoughtfully.     "Well— I'm  glad  if  other  people  have 
as  much  fun  about  it  all  as  we  do !" 

"Oh,  but  they  don't !"  Rose- Ann  said  confidently. 

2 

Clive  came,  and  saw,  and  approved.  And  after  dinner, 
when  the  gate-legged  table  had  been  pushed  back  against 
the  wall,  and  they  were  comfortably  disposed  about  the  fire, 
Rose- Ann  said: 

"Do  you  remember,  Clive,  you  promised  to  tell  us  a  story  t 

"A  story?  Yes,  so  I  did.  Well,  I  will  tell  you  a  story 
about  St.  George  and  the  Village  Dragon." 

He  lighted  a  cigarette.  "This  particular  village  is  situated, 
as  the  story-books  say,  not  a  thousand  miles  from  Chicago. 
It  has  a  Dragon  there,  which—.  But  let  me  drop  the 
epic  style.  The  fact  is,  that  in  this  village  there  are  three 
classes  of  people,  each  of  which  strictly  avoids  the  others— 
though  they  maintain  casually  friendly  relations,  and  say 
'Good  Morning'  when  they  meet  in  the  post-office.  The  three 
classes  are,  first,  the  villagers  proper,  the  original  inhabitants 
of  the  place ;  second,  the  summer  people ;  and  third,  a  few 
artists  and  writers. 

"The  village  people  live  in  the  village,  and  keep  them 
selves  to  themselves;  the  summer  people  live  in  boarding 
houses  and  in  nice  new  bungalows  on  the  edge  of  town,  and 
associate  with  each  other ;  and  the  artists  and  writers  live 
out  in  the  more  inaccessible  regions,  perched  on  the  edges 
of  ravines,  and  turn  up  their  noses  at  everybody  else. 

"The  fact  is  tnat  they  are  afraid  of  some  sort  of  social 
infection  or  contamination  from  each  other's  manners  and 
morals.  They  all  secretly  despise  each  other ;  the  writers  and 
artists  despise  the  summer  bourgeoisie,  and  the  villagers  sell 
them  groceries  and  taxi  them  home  from  the  station  and 
despise  them  both. 

"And  yet  once  in  a  while  some  young  person  of  one  group 

'  happens  not  to  despise  some  young  person  from  one  of  the 

other   groups.     Then   everybody  else   becomes  very   much 

alarmed.  .  .  .     Two  years  ago,  it  was  a  young  man  in  the 


182  The  Briary-Bush 

summer  colony  and  a  village  girl.  Everybody — in  the 
summer  colony  and  the  village — was  afraid  something  terrible 
would  happen.  The  villagers  have  a  story  about  a  girl  who 
was  betrayed  and  deserted  by  a  gilded  youth  who  owned  an 
automobile — and  she  drowned  herself  in  the  Lake.  And  the 
summer  colony  has  an  even  more  heart-rending  legend  about 
a  foolish  boy  who  married  a  pretty  village  girl  and  took  her 
to  the  city,  and  she  couldn't  speak  grammatically,  and  so  on : 
a  dreadful  story!  Well,  the  young  man  in  the  summer 
colony  and  the  village  girl,  two  years  ago,  hadn't  heard  these 
stories,  it  seems;  at  any  rate,  they  went  to  dances  together 
— and  the  whole  community  waited,  fluttering  with  horror 
— until  the  young  man  and  the  girl,  finding  themselves  the 
objects  of  universal  anxiety,  became  frightened  of  each  other, 
and  stopped  seeing  one  another  at  all.  They  realized  in  time 
that  they  were  violating  a  social  taboo.  .  .  .  That's  the 
introduction  to  my  story. 

"Well,  the  taboo  operates  even  more  powerfully  to  prevent 
any  friendships  between  the  villagers  and  us  ravine-folk. 
Our  young  men  haven't  got  any  money  or  automobiles,  and 
the  village  girl's  don't  know  how  to  talk  about  art.  I  don't 
know  why  that  should  make  such  a  difference,  but  it  seems  to. 
Besides,  we  hardly  ever  meet  them.  We  don't  go  to  the 
local  dances ;  and  when  we  go  in  swimming,  we  go  up  the 
Lake  to  some  place  where  we  don't  have  to  wear  bathing 
suits.  The  only  young  woman  in  the  village  with  whom 
we  are  likely  to  exchange  a  dozen  words  in  as  many  weeks 
is  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  owns  one  of  the  cars  that 
meet  people  at  the  station,  and  who  occasionally  drives  us 
home  herself. 

"But,  after  all," — he  paused,  and  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke 
up  toward  the  ceiling,  "even  Woods  Point  is  part  of  the 
modern  world.  Anything  can  happen  there.  It's  not 
impossible  that  a  girl  should  be  born  in  Woods  Point  who 
went  to  the  public  library  and  got  hold  of  Shaw  and  Gals 
worthy  and  H.  G.  Wells,  and  dreamed  of  going  to  Chicago 
and  getting  a  job  and  living  her  own  life — and  yet  who, 
being  a  girl,  stayed  on  in  Woods  Point." 


St.  George  of  the  Minute          183 

"Yes,"  said  Felix,  "I  can  understand  that." 

"I  can't,"  said  Rose-Ann.     "How  old  was  she?" 

"Nineteen." 

"Well— go  on,"  said  Rose-Ann.     "Perhaps  I'm  wrong." 

"That  girl,"  said  Clive,  "wouldn't  be  particularly  interested 
in  the  summer  boarders.  But  she  would  be  interested  in 
the  writers  and  artists  out  on  the  edge  of  the  ravines.  She 
would  hear  the  gossip  about  their  'queer  doin's'  "  —he  smiled, 
and  looked  at  Rose-Ann— "about  how  they  run  around  in 
the  snow  without  a  stitch  of  clothes  on !  for  instance.  .  .  . 

"Goodness!"  said  Rose-Ann,  "who  could  have  seen  me?" 

"Us  village  folks  hears  about  everything  that's  goin'  on !" 
said  Clive.  "Well— this  girl  would  hear  about  these 
crazy  artists,  and  their  crazy  talk,  and  their  crazy  parties— 
and  she  would  feel  that  she  understood  these  people,  that  she 
belonged  among  them.  But  she  would  never  have  talked  to 
a  living  soul  about  the  things  that  interested  her.  She  would 
be  inarticulate.  And  if  any  of  these  artists  or  writers  had 
talked  to  her  for  a  passing  moment,  they  would  never  have 
guessed  that  she  was  anything  but  what  she  seemed — a 
village  girl. 

"She  might  see  a  good  deal  of  these  people,  first  and  last. 
She  might  be  the  girl  who  drove  them  home  from  the  station 
in  her  father's  car,  who  came  for  them  after  midnight  at 
the  end  of  one  of  their  crazy  parties.  And  none  of  them 
would  ever  guess — why  should  he  ? — that  the  girl  who  honked 
the  horn  impatiently  for  them  out  in  the  road,  would  go  home 
and  read  'Man  and  Superman'  in  bed,  and  then  cry  herself 
to  sleep. 

"Unless,  perhaps,  one  of  the  ravine-folk  happened  to  be 
a  man  of  a  very  curious  and  inquiring  disposition,  who  never 
took  anything  at  its  face-value — who  doubted  everything — 
even  the  villageness  of  village  girls.  ...  He  might  ask  her 
one  day — and  wouldn't  it  be  absurd?  can  you  imagine  any 
thing  more  ridiculous  to  ask  a  village  girl,  out  of  a  clear 
sky — 'Did  you  ever  read  Bernard  Shaw?'  And  she  might 
reply  very  quietly,  'Yes,  every  play  I  could  get  hold  of.' ' 

"Well!"  said  Rose- Ann. 


184  The  Briary-Bush 

"You  can  see  what  might  happen.  .  .  .  Those  people 
would  want  to  see  more  of  each  other.  And  you  can  imagine 
some  of  the  difficulties.  Why,  they  might  as  well  have 
belonged  to  the  Montagues  and  the  Capulets !  You  can 
imagine  the  talk — about  two  people  who  only  wanted  a 
chance  for  a  little  literary  conversation !"' 

"Only,  Clive?"  asked  Rose- Ann. 

"At  first,  anyway.  But  with  that  atmosphere  of  intrigue 
and  suspicion,  their  meetings  would  assume  a  romantic 
colouring — inevitably.  ...  To  such  a  man,  that  girl  with  her 
need  for  ideas,  for  talk,  for  companionship,  might  be  very 
appealing.  And  to  her,  in  her  isolation  and  ignorance,  he 
might  appear  as  a  very  superior,  a  very  wonderful  person 
indeed.  .  .  .  He  would  lend  her  books,  and  talk  with  her,  and 
urge  her  to  go  to  Chicago  and  get  some  kind  of  a  job.  He 
would  talk  to  her  about  love — " 

"In  short,"  said  Felix,  "he  would  fall  in  love  with  her !" 

Clive  shook  his  head.  "He  would  know  better  than  that. 
He  would  know  that  what  she  really  needed  was  Chicago,  and 
friends,  and  work,  and  adventure.  .  .  ." 

Felix  reflected  that  Clive  could  have  offered  her  all  these 
things.  .  .  . 

"And  what  happened?"  asked  Rose- Ann. 

"He  couldn't  persuade  her  to  take  the  plunge  into  life  in 
Chicago  without  some  kind  of  preparation.  .  .  .  She's 
terribly  afraid  of  Chicago.  ...  So  she's  worked  out  a 
solution  of  her  own.  She's  gone  off  to  a  normal  school,  to 
learn  to  be  a  school-teacher;  and  get  a  job  in  Chicago  that 
way.  .  .  .  Worse  than  that — she's  going  to  teach  somewhere 
else  first,  for  some  damned  reason,  and  later  go  to  Chicago. 
I  tell  her,  yes,  when  she's  forty,  she'll  be  ready  to  begin 
life!" 

"So  that,"  Felix  said,  "was  what  was  troubling  you  all 
winter.  I  thought  you  were  trying  to  get  some  girl  to  marry 
you ;  and  you  were  merely  trying  to  get  her  to  go  to  Chicago 
and  get  a  job!" 

"Am  I  to  be  given  no  credit  for  the  disinterested  and 
unselfish  character  of  my  worrying?"  Clive  asked  gaily. 


St.  George  of  the  Minute  185 

"I  don't  imagine  the  girl  gives  you  much  credit  for  it," 
said  Felix.  "Why  don't  you  marry  her  and  be  done  with  it  ?" 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Clive.  "Must  one  marry  a  girl 
because  he  has  talked  to  her  about  Bernard  Shaw  ?" 

"Must  St.  George  marry  the  girl  he  has  rescued  from  the 
dragon?"  Felix  retorted.  "I  only  know  it  always  happens 
in  the  story-books  that  way." 

"A  fine  realist  you  are,  young  man!  Fortunately,  there 
are  other  St.  Georges  in  the  world. — Why  this  sudden  pas 
sion  of  matrimonial  propaganda?  Misery  loves  company?" 

"I  wouldn't  worry  about  Phyllis  if  I  were  you,"  Rose-Ann 
said  to  Felix  coolly.  "She's  perfectly  able  to  take  care  of 
herself.  Her  plan  is  all  right.  She's  very  young,  and  it 
won't  do  her  any  harm  to  wait  a  year  or  two  and  learn  a  trade 
before  she  comes  here  to  live.  I  think  she's  a  very  sensible 
young  woman,  myself." 

It  was  time  for  Clive  to  go,  for  he  was  living  out  at 
Woods  Point  again.  They  discussed  the  studio  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  Felix  put  on  his  hat  and  accompanied  Clive 
to  the  platform  of  the  Illinois  Central  station  a  block  away. 

"Spring!"  said  Clive,  sniffing  the  mild  March  breeze. 
"Tomorrow  will  be  warm." 

"Clive,"  said  Felix,  "what's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway  ? 
You're  really  in  love  with  Phyllis!" 

"Who  knows?"  said  Clive.  "Sometimes  I  think  I  am, 
myself !" 

"Well,  then?" 

"But  there's  another  question  you  haven't  considered.  Is 
she  in  love  with  me?" 

"Ask  her  and  find  out!" 

"Oh,  I've  no  doubt  she  thinks  she  is,  at  this  moment. 
Just  because  I  don't  seem  to  care  whether  she  is  or  not ! 
She's  a  queer  girl,  Felix.  You  don't  understand  her  at 
all.  .  .  ." 

"You  exasperate  me,"  said  Felix.  "Marry  her,  and  put 
an  end  to  all  this  foolishness." 

"But  why  should  you  assume  that  my  intentions — if  I 
have  any — are  honourable,  young  man!  What  makes  you 


i86  The  Briary-Bush 

think  I  want  to  get  married  to  anybody?  I  think  I'll  wait 
and  see  how  your  marriage  turns  out  first !" 

Felix  walked  home  slowly,  but  it  seemed  only  an  instant 
before  he  opened  the  door  of  the  studio.  "Who  is  it?" 
called  Rose-Ann  from  behind  the  screen.  "It's  me,"  he  said, 
and  locked  the  door,  and  stood  there  for  a  moment.  .  .  . 
He  felt  a  kind  of  vague  bewilderment. 

He  had  been  so  immersed  in  the  story  of  these  other 
unhappy  lives,  so  poignantly  concerned  with  their  tangled 
doubts  and  fears,  that  it  was  strange  to  return  to  this  scene 
of  his  own  untroubled  happiness.  The  sense  of  those  other 
tormented  lives  burned  at  this  moment  more  vividly  in  his 
imagination  than  his  own  life  and  Rose-Ann's.  .  .  . 

"Coming  to  bed  ?"  Rose-Ann  called  from  behind  the  screen. 

"No,"  he  said  vaguely,  "I  think  I'll  write  for  a  while." 

"All  right,  then  I  won't  bother  you.     Good-night !" 

"Good-night,  Rose-Ann." 

He  went  over  to  his  desk,  and  turned  on  the  electric  light, 
and  dij^ped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and  then  sat  dreaming  before 
a  white  sheet  of  paper. 


XXVI.  What  Rose-Ann  Wanted 


"W  IT  THY   don't  you   want  me  to   get  a   job,   Felix?" 
%/%/        It  was  mid-April,  and  the  Park  across  the  way 

»  »  had,  all  at  once,  turned  that  lovely  young  green 
of  beginning  grass  and  burgeoning  trees.  It  was  dusk,  and 
Rose-Ann  and  Felix  were  sitting  in  their  cushioned  window- 
seat — a  new  addition  to  the  household  furnishing — arguing 
a  point  which  had  been  coming  up  from  time  to  time  since 
their  marriage. 

"You  have  your  work,"  she  went  on. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  doing  all  Hawkins's  work  now, 
and  in  the  fall  I  will  get  a  respectable  salary,  I  expect,  so  why 
need  we — " 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  she  said.  "I  mean  your  writing." 
Ever  since  that  morning  at  the  St.  Dunstan,  Felix  had  been 
writing  at  odd  times,  at — heaven  knew  just  what,  he  wasn't 
sure  himself — something  that  might  perhaps  be  called  a  play, 
but  so  fantastic  a  thing  as  yet  that  he  had  not  even  ventured 
to  show  any  of  the  fragments  of  it  to  Rose- Ann;  she  had 
been  very  nice  about  it,  too,  never  asking  him  to  let  her  see 
what  he  had  done  the  night  before  ...  to  furnish  the 
justification,  as  it  were,  for  staying  up  until  all  hours.  Felix 
wasn't  at  all  certain  that  they  constituted  such  a  justification. 
They  were  probably  mere  folly :  but,  so  far,  they  were  all  he 
could  attempt. 

"You  have  your  writing,"  Rose-Ann  was  saying.  "And  I 
haven't  anything." 

"You  used  to  write,  Rose-Ann,"  he  said. 

"I  know.     Not  much." 

"You  need  not  have  given  up  your  class  at  Community 
House,"  he  suggested. 

187 


i88  The  Briary-Bush 

"It  wasn't  enough,  any  longer.     I  want  something  else." 

"What?" 

"I  don't  know.  Something  to  use  up  my  energies.  I 
can't  stay  here  and  play  keeping  house  in  a  studio.  There's 
no  excuse  for  it.  That's  why  we  have  a  studio,  Felix !  So 
we  can  each  be  free.  Why  are  you  so  stubborn  about  it?" 

"I'm  not  being  stubborn,  Rose- Ann.  I'm  just  being 
candid.  I  can't  stop  you  from  going  out  and  getting  a  job. 
But  I  can  tell  the  truth  and  say  I  don't  like  the  idea !  And 
that's  all  I  can  do.  If  it  means  so  much  to  you,  you'll  have 
to  do  it  in  spite  of  my  not  liking  it,  that's  all.  ...  It  isn't  as 
if  there  were  some  particular  thing  you  wanted  to  do — I 
wouldn't  say  a  word  against  that.  But  work  in  general — 
work  for  the  sake  of  work — that  just  means  a  little  more 
money,  which  we  don't  need,  and  your  coming  home  tired 
at  night.  .  .  .  After  all,  Rose-Ann,  I  want  a  wife.  .  .  .  " 

She  grew  suddenly  cold.  "Then  you  should  have  mar 
ried  somebody  else,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  to  be — a  wife !" 

And  they  went  out  to  dinner  in  an  estranged  silence. 


These  silences,  inexplicable  and  impenetrable,  would  spring 
up  between  them,  and  then  as  inexplicably  dissolve — some 
times  in  tears,  sometimes  in  laughter. 

That  night  when  they  came  home  to  their  studio  and  started 
to  undress  for  bed,  Rose-Ann  changed  back  suddenly  to  her 
acccustomed  self ;  and  his  own  mood,  a  moment  ago  puzzled 
and  angry,  could  not  withstand  the  influence  of  her  smile. 
Then  both  of  them  were  sorry,  and  accused  themselves  in 
wardly  of  the  fault.  .  .  .  Felix  could  see  why  she  objected  to 
being  merely  "a  wife,"  and  wondered  that  he  had  been  so 
crass  as  to  say  such  a  thing  .  .  .  and  they  sought  with 
passionate  tenderness  to  make  each  other  forget.  .  .  . 

"Do  I  make  you  happy,  Felix  ?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  And  are  you  happy  ?" 

"Yes,"— a  little  sadly,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said,  "you  seem  for  a  moment  to  go  far 
away  from  me,  even  when  you  are  here  in  my  arms.  I 


What  Rose-Ann  Wanted  189 

can't  bear  that."  He  held  her  more  closely,  as  though  to 
reassure  himself  of  the  reality  of  her  presence.  "Then  it 
all  begins  to  seem  like  a  dream  again.  .  .  .  I've  always  been 
lonely  for  you,  all  my  life,  wanting  you  always  ...  and 
not  believing  I  was  ever  going  to  find  you  .  .  .  trying  to 
adjust  myself  to  a  world  in  which  you  didn't  exist.  And 
sometimes,  even  now — But  you  are  real,  aren't  you  ?" 

"I  dreamed  of  you,  too,  Felix.  .  .  ." 

"Isn't  it  strange?  And  strangest  of  all,  that  the  story 
should  have  a  happy  ending." 

'This — is  just  the  beginning,  Felix.  .  .  ."" 

A  faint  sadness  in  her  tone,  that  he  had  heard  before  in  the 
very  midst  of  their  happiness,  frightened  him. 

"The  beginning,  yes,"  he  said.  "The  beginning  of 
happiness." 

"And — afterward,  Felix  ?" 

"More  happiness.  .  .  .  Doesn't  that  satisfy  you?" 

"Yes,  but — Oh,  of  course  it's  beautiful  and  wonderful  to 
me,  Felix.  But  I'm  afraid.  .  .  ." 

"Of  what,  darling?" 

"We  love  just  being  together,  now.  But  will  we  always? 
I  mean — doesn't  something  happen  to  happiness,  after  a 
while  ?  I  know  it  sounds  absurd.  I  don't  mean  we'll  fall  out 
of  Jove — not  that — but  won't  we  lose  the  beauty  of  this — 
this  intimacy,  in  time?  You  know  how  other  people  some 
times  seem — cooped  up  and  used  to  each  other — just  that. 
It's  ugly,  to  me  ...  I  suspect  we  are  rather  awful,  Felix, 
talking  about  such  things !  .  .  ." 

"No,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  enough  to  feel— we  must  know 
why  we  feel." 

She  sighed.  "I  guess  we  are  like  that.  We  can't  even 
take  happiness  without  asking  why." 

It  was  true;  they  encouraged  each  other  in  what  would 
have  seemed,  to  some  people,  an  exaggerated  curiosity  about 
things  of  no  importance — and,  to  many  lovers,  a  prying  into 
matters  best  left  alone.  Do  not  all  charms  fly  at  the  mere 
touch  of  cold  philosophy?  They  did  not  seem  to  fear  it. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Felix  reflectively,  "people  must  care  a 


190  The  Briary-Bush 

great  deal  for  each  other.  ...  It  would  be  dreadful,  this 
closeness,  if  one  didn't  want  it." 

"But  does  one  keep  on  wanting  it?  .  .  .  Yes,  Felix, 
that's  what  I'm  afraid  of.  If  this  is  only  for  a  while — and 
then  we  were  to  be  just  like  other  people — sunk  in  a  greasy 
domesticity—Felix,  I  couldn't  keep  on  living," 

He  took  her  hand  tenderly.  "But  we  aren't  like  those 
other  people,  Rose-Ann,"  he  said.  He  had  a  baffling  sense 
of  this  speech  contradicting  something  he  had  said  or  thought 
before.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  really  think  our  marriage  is  so  different  from 
other  people's,  Felix?" 

They  seemed  to  have  exchanged  places  in  the  argument — 
that  argument,  so  absurd  and  yet  so  poignant,  which  kept 
arising,  neither  of  them  knowing  why,  nor  quite  what  it  was 
all  about.  .  .  . 

"Of  course  our  marriage  is  different,"  he  was  saying. 
"How  many  married  people  really  want  to  know  each  other  ? 
How  many  of  them  can  really  talk  to  one  another  about  what 
is  going  on  in  their  inmost  minds — as  we  do !" 

"Yes,  we  do,  don't  we,"  said  Rose-Ann,  comforted  to  find 
in  this  complete  candour  of  theirs  an  authentic  superiority 
to  the  common  destiny  of  tragic  and  ridiculous  mutual  mis 
understanding. 

"We  shall  always  be  finding  out  new  things  about  one 
another,"  Felix  went  on  bravely.  "That  is  what  our  mar 
riage  means — a  knitting  together  of  our  whole  lives,  a 
marrying  of  our  memories." 

"And  our  hopes,  too,  Felix,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "And  a 
creating  of  something  new  and  beautiful — books,  plays, 
poems.  .  .  .  But  I  forgot!"  she  laughed.  "I  mustn't  talk 
about  your  literary  works  till  you  let  me.  Must  talk  about 
something  else !  .  .  . 

"Yes,  Felix,  we  are  different.  We  can  say  things  to  each 
other  that  ordinary  lovers  couldn't.  I  wouldn't  have  dared 
speak  of  my  silly  fears  to  anybody  but  you.  .  .  .  And — you 
can  tell  me  things.  .  .  .  What  you  wrote  to  me,  when  I  was 
home  in  Springfield,  you  remember,  about  that  girl,  Felix — 


What  Rose- Ann  Wanted  191 

I  loved  you  for  it.  A  v  sonnet  you  read  me  last  night 
reminded  me  of  her  and  you.  I  made  you  read  it  over 
twice — I  didn't  tell  you  why.  I  still  remember  the  way  it 
begins."  Softly  she  said  the  lines: 

"We  needs  must  know  that  in  the  days  to  come 

No  child,  that  from  our  summer  sprang,  shall  be.  .  .  . 

"It  made  me  love  you  all  the  more  to  know  you  felt  so 
about  your  boyish  love-affair — that  you  wanted  to  be  mar 
ried,  that  you  really  wanted  your  girl-sweetheart  to  have  a 
baby,  hers  and  yours.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  it  didn't  happen  that 
way,  but  I  think  you  were  a  lovely,  foolish,  beautiful  boy- 
lover  to  want  it.  ... 

"Of  course,"  she  added,  "artists  shouldn't  have  families 
to  support.  .  .  .  They  are  children  themselves. — Do  you 
know  why  I  want  to  get  a  job,  Felix?  You  mustn't  be 
angry  at  me — but  if  anything  should  happen,  if  you  should 
lose  your  place  on  the  Chonicle,  or  if  you  should  get  to 
feel  that  you  need  all  your  time  for  your  writing,  I  would 
want  to  be  able  to  make  enough  money  so  you  could  go  on 
with  your  own  work.  You  don't  mind  my  wanting  that,  do 
you,  Felix?  We're  not  the  conventional  married  couple, 
the  wife  sitting  at  home  doing  nothing  while  the  man  goes 
out  to  work  every  day!  I  want  to  be  a  real  helpmeet — an 
artist's  wife,  not  an  ordinary  wife." 

"You're  a  darling,"  said  Felix.  "But—"  a  little  un 
comfortably — "I  guess  I  can  take  care  of  myself ;  I  shan't 
need  to  be  supported.  Why  don't  you  go  ahead  and  be  an 
artist  yourself?" 

"Oh,  Felix,  I  can't !  .  .  .'" 

"Why  not?     What  kind  of  artist  do  you  want  to  be?" 

"Something  I  can't  be,  Felix.  If  I  tell  you,  you'll  under 
stand.  .  .  .  But  you  won't  laugh  at  me  ?" 

"Of  course  not,  Rose-Ann." 

"But  it's  really  funny!  Especially  if  you  had  seen  me 
v/hen  I  was  a  girl — shy,  awkward,  prudish — yes,  prudish, 
Felix.  When  I  was  eighteen,  I  was  the  worst  little  old 
maid  you  ever  saw.  I  read  romantic  books  all  the  time, 
and  real  people  seemed  to  me  coarse  and  horrible.  I  hated 


192  The  Briary-Bush 

everybody.  I  wouldn't  go  to  boy-and-girl  parties,  because 
of  the — it  still  seems  an  ugly  word  to  me — 'spooning'  that 
went  on  in  the  corners.  I  wouldn't  dance,  I  wouldn't  hold 
hands.  I  wouldn't  keep  company.  Oh,  I  was  terrible. 
For  a  while  I  wanted  to  be  a  missionary  in  some  savage 
country — " 

"And  teach  the  natives  to  wear  clothes? — is  that  your 
secret  ambition?"  he  laughed. 

"No — for  I  got  converted  ...  to  paganism.  When  I 
was  twenty-one  years  old.  It  was  a  book  that  converted  me." 

"I  really  know  very  little  about  you,  don't  I?  All  this 
seems  so  strange.  .  .  .  I've  imagined  you  as  always  being 
what  you  are  now.  What  book  was  it  converted  you?" 

"It  was  'Leaves  of  Grass.'  You  remember  I  told  you 
how  I  decided  to  be  a  librarian,  and  took  a  course  of  training, 
and  was  made  an  assistant  in  the  library  at  Springfield.  .  .  . 
Well,  there  was  a  shelf  of  forbidden  books — and  one  day  I 
opened  one  of  those  forbidden  books,  and  read  a  passage.  .  . 
I'll  tell  you:  it  was  'A  woman's  body  at  auction' — do  you 
remember  it?  Uncouth,  wonderful  lines — not  so  much 
poetry  to  me  as  a  revelation.  I  remember  I  stood  there 
reading  some  of  those  lines  again  and  again,  and  I  went 
back  to  the  desk  saying  them  over  and  over  to  myself — 
just  rough,  plain  phrases  naming  over  one  by  one  the  joints 
and  muscles  and  parts  of  the  body,  like  an  anatomy  text 
book — but  making  me  feel,  as  no  text-book  had  ever  done, 
that  these  wonderful  things  were  my  body!  Those  lines 
still  have  a  thrill  for  me — "  And  she  chanted,  solemnly, 
like  a  litany: 

"Upper  arm,  armpit,  elbow-socket,  lower-arm,  arm-sinews,  arm- 
bones, 

Wrist  and  wrist-joints,  hand,  palm,  knuckles,  forefinger,  finger- 
joints,  finger-nails, 

Ribs,  belly,  back-bone,  hips,  hip-sockets.  .  .  . 
O  I  say  these  are  not  parts  and  poems  of  the  body  only,  but  of 

the  soul!" 

She  paused,  and  smoked  her  cigarette  silently,  remember 
ing.  "I  went  around  the  rest  of  that  day,"  she  said 


What  Rose- Ann  Wanted  193 

presently,  "in  a  dreaming  ecstasy.  ...  I  had  read  in  some 
of  my  father's  books  about  the  mystics,  and  I  knew  that 
I  felt  like  them  when  they  had  seen  God.  ...  I  looked 
every  now  and  then  with  a  kind  of  awe  at  my  wrist  or  my 
finger-nail,  saying  to  myself,  These  are  not  parts  of  the  body 
only,  but  of  the  soul!  And  that  night  I  took  the  book  home, 
and  read  it  in  bed,  happy  and  afraid.  .  .  . 

"And  now  comes  the  part  that  is  funny.  There  always  is 
something  funny,  isn't  there,  in  trying  to  put  a  revelation  into 
practice!  But  don't  laugh  at  me,  Felix.  Think  what  it 
would  mean  to  a  young-lady-librarian,  a  clergyman's 
daughter,  to  discover  that  her  body  was  a  poem.  ...  I 
got  out  of  bed  and  took  off  my  nightgown  to  look  at  myself 
in  the  glass.  But  it  was  a  modest  glass,  fastened  sideways 
to  the  top  of  the  bureau,  and  it  refused  to  show  me  all  of 
myself  at  once;  so  I  unfastened  it,  and  wrestled  it  down 
from  the  bureau,  and  stood  it  upright  against  the  wall.  I 
was  rather  disappointed,  Felix — my  body  wasn't  as  beautiful 
as  a  poem  ought  to  be ;  it  was  just  a  slim,  awkward,  twenty- 
one-year-old  girl's  body,  that  was  all. 

"But  there  had  been  something  beautiful  about  it  for  a 
moment — in  the  glimpses  I  had  of  it  in  the  glass  as  I  pulled  it 
down  from  the  bureau;  then  it  had  been — well,  yes. 
beautiful,  with  the  beauty  of — flexed  muscles  and  purposeful 
movement.  .  .  .  And  I  had  a  kind  of  vision.  .  .  .  Yes, 
really,  Felix  ...  a  wonderful  and  terrible  moment,  in 
which  I  seemed  to  see  myself  wrestling  with  life,  in  a  kind 
of  agony  of  creation  .  .  .  and  for  a  moment  I  seemed  to 
know  what  my  woman's  body  was  for.  And  then  I  sort  of 
waked  up,  wondering  what  it  was  all  about.  I  was  thrilled 
and  afraid.  .  .  . 

"And  then  an  idea  came  to  me — I'm  glad  I  can  tell  you 
this  part,  Felix — I  said  to  myself :  I  will  be  a  dancer !  Yes, 
I  decided  to  go  to  Chicago  and  learn  to  be  a  dancer.  .  .  . 

"There  was  a  boy  who  wanted  to  marry  me — though  I 

don't  know  what  this  has  to  do  with  it;  anyway,  I  would 

get  away  from  him  at  the  same  time,  by  going  to  Chicago. 

.  I  was  all  on  fire  with  the  idea.     I  wanted  to  start  right 


194  The  Briary-Bush 

away  with  dancing.  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep.  And — this  is 
the  part  that  seems  to  me  the  most  terribly  ridiculous  of 
all — I  went  downstairs  and  brought  back  the  Dan-Emp 
volume  of  father's  encyclopedia  to  read  the  article  about 
Dancing.  .  .  . 

"And  there,  in  that  article,  Felix,  I  learned  why  I  could 
never  be  a  really-truly  dancer — it  seems  that  one  must  begin 
in  one's  cradle ! 

"Well — I  cried.  I  could  cry  now  when  I  think  about  it. 
I'm  a  perfect  fool,  Felix.  .  .  .  But  what's  the  use  of  having 
a  vision  of  one's  purpose  in  life,  if  one  can't  do  anything 
about  it  ?  ...  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  do  except  stay 
in  Springfield  and — marry  that  boy.  And  I  couldn't,  I 
couldn't  do  that.  I  thought  of  other  things  besides  dancing 
that  I  might  do,  but  they  didn't  interest  me.  An  artist's 
model?  Somehow  I  didn't  like  that  idea — not  in  modern 
terms — not  at  so  much  an  hour ;  after  all,  I  was  a  clergyman's 
daughter,  and  it  just  didn't  seem  respectable!  I  thought — 
if  I  had  lived  in  Ancient  Greece,  I  might  have  been  a  friend 
of  Phidias  or  somebody,  and  seen  myself  carved  upon  the 
frieze  of  a  temple  ...  or  been  one  of  the  marble  maidens 
of  Keats'  Grecian  Urn.  Oh,  I  dreamed  of  all  the  lovely 
and  impossible  things  in  the  world.  And  I  decided — at 
least  I  wouldn't  stay  in  Springfield !" 

"And  so  you  came  to  Chicago.  .  .  .  " 

"Yes,  and  became  a  settlement-worker.  It  seems  a 
pitiful  climax  to  my  story,  doesn't  it?  And  yet,  if  one 
lives  in  twentieth-century  America  instead  of  in  Ancient 
Greece,  what  is  one  to  do?  It  seemed  to  me  a  good  pagan 
life,  to  try  to  bring  about  a  better  world  for  everybody — 
a  world  in  which  beauty  would  count  ^f or  something.  .  .  . 
At  one  time  I  thought  I  was  a  socialist,  but  I  found  that 
I  couldn't  bear  to  attend  stuffy  meetings,  and  that  I  couldn't 
understand  Marx  and  didn't  want  to.  And  I  wasn't 
interested  in  woman  suffrage,  either.  My  life  had  to  be 
centred  around  something  personal.  So — " 

"So  you  taught  those  children  how  to  play.  .  .  .  " 

"It  was  the  Greekliest  thing  I  knew  to  do.  .  .  .  If  Aspasia 


What  Rose-Ann  Wanted  195 

had  been  born  in  Springfield,  Illinois,  she  might  have  taken 
a  class  in  a  Chicago  settlement !"  Rose- Ann  said  defiantly— 
and  then,  doubtfully,  "What  do  you  think  of  it  all?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said— "it  leaves  me  ^bewildered— 
except  that  I  think  you're  a  wonderful  child." 

"It's  you  who  are  wonderful,"  she  said,  "to  understand. 
I  am  a  child,  I  suppose— and  I  want  to  stay  one  always.  I 
don't  want  to  grow  up.  That's  very  foolish,  isn't  it?  Do 
you  know  that  horrible  habit  some  married  people  have  of 
addressing  each  other  as  'Pa'  and  'Ma'  —as  soon  as  they 
have  a  baby,  I  mean?  I  suppose  it's  meant  as  a  joke.  And 
I  suppose  it's  a  joke,  too,  when  a  man  refers  to  his  wife_as 
'the  old  woman/  When  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  vowed  to 
myself  that  no  man  would  ever  have  the  right  to  call  me  his 
'old  woman.'  Or  ...  but  then,  we  shan't  ever  have  any 
children,  shall  we?  You  remember  what  I  said— the  ^  talk 
we  had  in  the  hospital  that  day.  I  meant  that,  Felix." 

Felix's  mind  was  fumbling  for  the  lost  thread  of  their 
discourse.  Rose-Ann's  talk  had  a  disconcerting  way  of 
suddenly  leaping  from  one  idea  to  another.  How  did  they 
come  to  be  talking  about  children?  She  had  brought  them 
in,  without  rhyme  or  reason,  more  than  once  tonight. 
And  each  time  he  had  remembered  with  a  sense  of  discour 
agement  and  vague  shame  that  moment  at  the  hospital  when 
he  had  not  had  the  courage  to  tell  her  that  he  wanted  to  be- 
everything  that  it  seemed  he  need  not  be  after  all.  He 
wanted  now  to  say  something — but  what  could  he  say? 
Some  other  time,  perhaps,  when  he  had  a  chance  to  think 
things  out  more  clearly.  ...  It  did  not  need  to  be  settled 


now. 


;  vv  . 

"Why,"  he  said  confusedly,  "we  did  talk  about  it,  yes. 
don't  suppose  we  can  afford  to—       He  was  going  to  add 
"right  away,"  but  Rose-Ann  interrupted  him. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  said,  "I've  forgotten— I  promised  to  let 
my  father  know  our  address,  as  soon  as  we  found  a  place 
to  live,  so  he  could  come  and  see  us,  and  I  forgot  all  about  it ! 
Felix,  will  you  bring  me  pencil  and  paper,  please?  I'll 
write  to  him  now." 


196  The  Briary-Bush 

Rose-Ann's  troubled  mind — too  troubled  to  be  aware  of 
itself — had  been  seeking  an  answer  to  a  question  .  .  .  the 
question  for  which  she  had  unconsciously  sought  the 
answer  in  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  in  the  "Dan-Emp"  volume  of 
her  father's  encyclopedia,  in  settlement  work,  and  now  in 
her  marriage.  There  was  an  answer  which  s-he  dreaded — 
and  perhaps  hoped — to  hear.  But  in  his  chance  phrase  she 
had  heard  instead  the  definite  ratification  of  their  casual 
agreement  that  she  was  never  to  bear  him  a  child  .  .  .  and 
the  question,  which  neither  of  them  knew  had  been  discussed, 
of  whether  the  meaning  of  her  vision,  of  her  search,  of  her 
unsatisfied  yearning,  might  not  perhaps  be  found  in  the 
common,  ordinary,  the  all  too  obvious  role  of  motherhood, 
was  answered  No.  .  .  . 

Felix  brought  the  pencil  and  a  writing  pad,  and  she  sat 
and  wrote,  and  smiled,  and  wrote  again.  She  had  become 
once  more  remote — a  figure,  it  seemed  to  him  as  she  sat 
there  on  the  bed  in  the  lamplight  with  her  red-gold  hair  fal 
ling  over  her  white  shoulders,  like  a  girl  in  a  painting,  as  eter 
nally  lovely  and  unapproachable. 

She  stopped  writing.  "We've  utterly  forgotten  the  world 
ever  since  we  moved  into  this  studio,"  she  murmured. 

"And  a  good  thing,  too,"  said  Felix,  feeling  in  her  words 
some  threat  against  their  peace  and  quiet. 

"But  we  must  let  our  friends  know  where  we  are — and 
that  they  can  come  to  see  us.  ...  We  might  give  a  kind  of 
house-warming." 

"A   house-warming?"   Felix   repeated  doubtfully. 

"Yes — a  big  party — one  of  the  kind  you  hate.  But  I'll 
make  it  up  to  you  by  giving  some  cozy  little  parties. . . . 
There  are  people  you  ought  to  know,  Felix.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm 
going  to  be  a  real  artist's  wife!"  She  put  her  arms  about 
him  and  kissed  him,  fiercely  and  tenderly. 


XXVII.  Parties 


ROSE-ANN  decided  to  give  at  least  one  or  two  of  her 
"little"   parties  immediately;   perhaps  to   encourage 
Felix  to  meet  the  larger  ordeal.     And  to  the  first  of 
these  little  parties,  she  planned  to  invite,  with  what  seemed  to 
Felix  a  reckless  defiance  of  congruity,  Give,  Dorothy  Sheri 
dan  (who  had  in  the  meantime  been  in  to  see  "what  they  had 
done  to  her  old  studio"  and  appeared  to  be  satisfied  that  they 
had  not  turned  it  into  what  she  called  "a  Christian  home") 
— and  the  Howard  Morgans ! 

A  more  ill-assorted  company,  Felix  felt,  had  never  been 
invited  to  sit  at  the  one  table— a  poet  who  was  also  (or  at 
least  so  Felix  considered  him)  a  social  lion,  a  rough-man 
nered  Bohemian  girl-artist,  a  satirical  young  newspaper 
writer;  and  he,  a  frightened  young  husband  giving  his  first 
dinner,  was  doubtless  expected  by  his  infatuated  bride  to 
bring  music  out  of  this  discord !  Well,  let  her  find  out.  ... 
It  was  a  relief,  anyway,  to  be  told  that  he  need  not  wear  his 
evening  clothes. 

The  party  went  off  amazingly  well.  There  was  a  certain 
constraint,  at  first,  it  was  true ;  but  it  was  not  of  the  sort 
he  had  expected.  Dorothy  Sheridan  had  turned  up  with 
her  bobbed  hair  elaborately  and  beautifully  curled  and  wear 
ing  a  gaily  embroidered  Russian  smock.  "I  never  wear 
smocks  when  I  paint,"  she  said,  "painters  never  do— but  I 
like  to  wear  them  everywhere  else.  What  kind  of  folks  are 
these  Morgans?"  And  being  told  by  Rose- Ann— rashly, 
Felix  thought— that  they  were  "all  right,"  she  said,  "Then 
I  can  smoke,"  and  lighted  a  cigarette  with  an  air  of  relief.  .  . 
And  when  the  Howard  Morgans  came,  the  great  man  was 
dressed  in  an  old  suit  of  corduroys,  concerning  which  he 

197 


198  The  Briary-Bush 

appeared  to  be  nervous.  He  looked  at  Felix's  clothes 
anxiously,  and  then  at  Dorothy  Sheridan  with  her  cigarette, 
and  seemed  reassured.  He  must  have  been  reassured,  for 
when  the  introductions  were  accomplished,  he  took  out  an 
old  sack  of  tobacco  from  his  coat-pocket  and  a  crumpled 
package  of  straw-colored  paper,  and  rolled  himself  a 
cigarette.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  all  they  were  afraid  of — that 
the  occasion  might  not  be  sufficiently  informal !  And  after 
they  had  ceased  to  be  afraid  of  that,  they  got  on  vastly 
well,  drank  Felix's  cocktails  with  gusto,  ate  Rose-Ann's 
dinner  (it  was,  though  one  might  not  have  known  it,  a 
delicatessen  dinner)  with  unabashed  appetite,  and  talked 
like  old  friends.  Later  in  the  evening,  Give  turned  to 
Dorothy  Sheridan  and  demanded,  "Come,  you  are  not  really 
one  of  the  Sheridans,  are  you?  I  can't  believe  it!" — And 
she  answered :  "Well,  I'm  the  black  sheep  of  the  family ;  I 
don't  live  their  life — I  paint,  and  mind  my  own  business — 
so  you  ought  not  to  hold  that  against  me !"  From  her  man 
ner,  one  would  have  thought  that  the  Sheridans  were  a 
band  of  notorious  criminals,  but  Rose-Ann  told  him  after 
ward — what  it  seemed  she  had  suspected  all  along — that 
Dorothy  belonged  to  one  of  the — well,  as  Clive  had  said,  one 
of  "the" — families  of  Chicago.  .  .  .  Yes,  they  got  along 
very  well  indeed,  and  Felix  talked  about  everything  in  the 
world  with  complete  unselfconsciousness.  .  .  . 


Yes,  that  party  was  all  right.  .  .  .  But  a  dinner  for  Will 
Blake  of  Community  House,  and  Paul,  their  old  scenic- 
genius  friend,  now  a  prosperous  designer  of  musical  comedy 
settings  in  New  York  and  just  back  in  Chicago  for  a  few 
days— and  (yes!)  old  Mrs.  Perk  .  .  .  that  was  simply, 
Felix  felt,  defying  the  gods.  And  yet  it  turned  out  to  be 
an  even  more  successful  party  than  the  other.  Mrs.  Perk 
was  as  delightful  a  dinner  companion  as  any  one  could 
wish,  and  really  made  the  party  a  "go."  ...  Or  perhaps 
it  was  the  studio:  apparently  everybody  liked  a  touch  of 
bohemia;  apparently  anybody  in  such  a  place  could  be  com- 


Parties  199 

pletely  human,  natural,  and  at  ease.  ...  Or  perhaps  it 
was  Rose-Ann :  there  was  no  doubt  about  it,  she  was  a 
wonderful  hostess.  .  .  . 

And  Rose- Ann  had  only  just  started,  it  seemed,  on  her 
social  career.  After  the  "house-warming,"  which  came 
next  on  their  program,  she  intended  to  ask  some  of  her 
"bourgeois"  friends  in  to  dinner,  before  they  went  away 
for  the  summer.  "You  haven't  been  miserable  at  these 
parties,  have  you?"  she  said.  "Well,  you'll  find  the  others 
just  as  easy.  Everybody's  human — even  in  evening  clothes, 
Felix.  We'll  have  to  go  to  dinner  at  these  other  people's 
houses,  too,  you  know — and  once  you  make  up  your  mind 
to  it,  you  can  have  as  good  a  time  there  as  you  can  here!" 

All  right.  .  .  .  He  would  try  to  enjoy  himself,  he  promised 
obediently.  But  this  house-warming  presented  difficulties. 
They  were  inviting  everybody  they  knew — everybody! — 
people  from  Community  House,  from  the  Chronicle  office, 
from  Canal  street,  et  cetera.  .  .  .  Such  a  crowd!  "I  shall 
have  to  introduce  them  to  each  other,  and  I  won't  remember 
their  names,"  he  said  forlornly.  "I  never  remember  people's 
names !" 

"It's  all  right!"  said  Rose- Ann.  "After  a  cocktail  or 
two,  half  of  them  won't  know  their  own  names.  Besides, 
this  will  be  our  last  big  party,  ever.  I  promise !" 

Well,  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  know  that.  But — cocktails, 
and  Community  House  residents;  Felix  was  not  sure  (even 
after  seeing  Will  Blake  flushed  and  merry  with  their 
California  wine  sherbert  the  other  night!)  how  these  two 
elements  would  mix.  Eddie  Silver  after  his  ninth  cocktail 
would  scarcely  be  an  edifying  spectacle.  "Don't  worry," 
said  Rose-Ann.  "People  are  not  so  Puritanical  as  you 
think.  Anyway,  our  respectable  friends  will  come  early  and 
go  early — and  the  others  vice-versa." 

"I  thought,"  said  Felix,  "when  I  went  to  the  hospital,  that 
I  had  finished  with  boozing  .  .  ." 

"So  you  have,"  said  Rose-Ann  cheerfully.  "This  is  quite 
different  \" 

"And  you  a  clergyman's  daughter!"  said  Felix. 


2OO  The  Briary-Bush 


Rose- Ann's  father  was  somewhat  on  Felix's  mind,  because 
she  had  said  he  might  come  to  see  them  any  day.  And  if 
Felix  felt  some  awkwardness  in  adapting  himself  to  the 
convivial  life,  he  felt  still  more  embarrassment  at  the  prospect 
of  acting  the  difficult  role  of  the  son-in-law  of  a  clergy 
man.  .  .  .  One  had  to,  it  seemed,  be  so  many  different 
things  to  get  along  with  people!  But  he  was  learning. 
When  these  parties  were  over,  he  would  commence  to  think 
about  how  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  his  father-in-law. 

And  then,  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  of  the  house- 
warming,  when  Rose-Ann  had  gone  out  to  buy  something 
she  had  forgotten,  and  Felix  was  busy  squeezing  lemons,  a 
tall,  gentle,  stooping  man  with  a  slight  greying  beard 
walked  into  the  studio,  looked  about,  smiled,  and  extended 
his  hand. 

"I  suppose  you  are  my  son-in-law,"  he  said.  "I  see  you're 
getting  ready  for  a  party,  so  I'm  just  in  time.  Rose- Ann 
didn't  specially  invite  me,  but  I  guess  she'll  let  her  old  dad 
come  anyway." 


XXVIII.  A  Father-in-Law 


FELIX  stood  still  for  a  moment  with  a  lemon  suspended 
in  mid-squeeze. 
"I  know  just  how  you  feel,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
"At  such  a  moment  as  this,  a  father-in-law  would  be  just 
the  last  straw!" 

Felix  laughed,  and  shook  the  extended  hand.  "Did  I 
give  away  my  dismay  as  plainly  as  all  that?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  taking  off  his 
hat  and  overcoat,  and  sitting  down.  "Go  right  on  with  what 
you  were  doing,  and  we'll  talk.  I  feel  rather  well  acquainted 
with  you  from  what  I've  already  heard  about  you.  No, 
Rose-Ann  didn't  say  much,  but  I  sort  of  always  know  what 
she's  up  to.  The  marriage  wasn't  exactly  a  surprise  to  me. 
And  I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  coming  down  here  to  bother 
you,  except  that  I  thought  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  come 
than  one  of  the  boys.  You  see,  I'll  have  to  report  to  them 
that  it's  all  right,  or  they'll  go  on  thinking  that  Rose-Ann  has 
married  some  perfectly  disreputable  person."  He  smiled. 

"How  do  you  know,"  Felix  asked,  laughingly,  "that  I'm 
not  a  disreputable  person!" 

"Well,"  said  Rose- Ann's  father  gravely,  taking  out  a  cigar, 
"perhaps  you  are.  Will  you  have  one  of  these?  No? 
They're  very  good  Havana  cigars — I  can  recommend  them; 
oh,  I  see  you  smoke  cigarettes.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  are  a 
disreputable  person.  But  of  a  certain  type  that  I  can  very 
well  sympathize  with,  because  I  belong  to  it  myself.  Im 
practical.  Yes,  I  can  see  you're  that.  Not  interested  in 
making  money.  All  that  sort  of  thing.  Yes,  I'm  afraid  my 
sons  would  consider  you  a  poor  match  for  Rose-Ann.  What 
they  don't  understand  is  that  she  was  bound  to  marry  that 

201 


2O2  The  Briary-Bush 

sort  if  she  married  anybody.  I'll  have  to  misrepresent  youi 
when  I  get  back  home.  I'll  tell  them  that  you're  an  enter 
prising  young  newspaper  man.  You  won't  mind  that?" 

"I  should  be  delighted  to  have  somebody  think  that  of  me," 
said  Felix. 

"Well,  there's  no  reason  why  they  shouldn't.  .  .  .  I'll  be  a 
little  sad  when  I  get  home,  and  tell  them  that  I'm  afraid  Rose- 
Ann  will  never  be  really  happy  with  you — that  you  are  too 
practical  to  appreciate  the  poetic  side  of  her  nature.  Then 
they'll  be  convincd  that  it's  all  right.  ...  I  suppose  it  sounds 
odd  to  you,  my  speaking  this  way  of  my  own  sons  ?" 

"Well— yes,"  said  Felix,  "it  does  rather !  But  it's  refresh 
ing." 

"I  haven't  a  scrap  of  family  sentiment,"  said  Rose-Ann's 
father.  "I  am  interested  in  people  only  as  individuals.  And 
I  must  say  that  I  have  been  cursed  with  four  of  the  most 
practical  and  unimaginative  sons  that  a  ne'er-do-well  father 
ever  had.  They  will  all  end  up  as  millionaires,  I'm  sure. 
By  the  way,  I  hope  you've  no  prejudice  against  preachers?" 

"Not  your  kind,  anyway!"  Felix  laughed. 

"I  was  reading  a  book  the  other  day,"  said  the  old  man, 
"about  women  in  the  Middle  Ages.  It  said  that  women 
often  went  into  convents  then,  not  because  they  felt  par 
ticularly  religious,  but  because  they  wanted  to  escape  from 
the  humdrum  ways  of  ordinary  life.  A  woman  who  went 
into  a  convent  might  become — a  scholar,  a  ruler,  a  politician, 
the  peer  of  princes !  She  could  have  friendships  «with  dis 
tinguished  men.  She  could  be,  in  a  sense  that  her  married 
sister  wasn't,  free.  .  .  .  And  I  thought  how  well  all  that 
applied  to  myself.  If  I  had  lived  in  a  Catholic  country,  I 
would  probably  have  gone  into  a  monastery,  and  written  a 
history  of  something.  I  did  the  next  best  thing,  it  seems  to 
me  now.  I  went  into  a  profession  where  nobody  is  expected 
to  succeed.  I  escaped  from  the  bedevilment  of  business; 
I  started  out  in  business,  you  know,  and  left  it  for  the 
ministry.  Now  I  can  be  a  little  odd,  and  nobody  minds  very 
much.  I  am  very  fortunate,  I  think.  The  pulpit  is  a 
wonderful  refuge.  For  instance — do  you  like  to  drink?" 


A  Father-in-Law  203 

"No — not  really,"  Felix  said. 

"No,  I  thought  not,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "But  you 
have  to.  You  will  have  to  consume  your  share  of  that 
enormous  quantity  of  vile-tasting  medicine  you  are  preparing 
for  your  guests.  Now,  I  am  free  from  any  such  social 
necessity.  It's  an  enormous  relief." 

Felix  thought  of  his  Eddie  Silver  parties  in  the  past,  and 
all  the  parties  he  seemed  committed  to  in  the  future — and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Rose-Ann's  father  was  indeed  very  fortu 
nate. 

"I  assume,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  you  don't  particularly 
relish  the  idea  of  this  party,  anyway?" 

"No,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't,"  said  Felix. 

"Of  course  not.  What  sane  human  being  would  want 
to  spend  an  evening  talking  to  forty  people  without  saying 
anything  to  any  of  them?  And  yet  ordinary  people  are  sup 
posed  to  like  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Rose-Ann  promises  that  this  will  be  the  last  one  of  this 
kind." 

"Hold  her  to  her  promise,  young  man!"  said  Rose- Ann's 
father.  "And  be  stern  about  it.  Be  ruthless.  Rose- 
Ann,"  he  observed  reflectively,  "means  well.  But  after  all, 
she's  a  woman.  And  when  you  know  as  much  about  women 
as  I  do,  you  will  know  that  they  are  the  natural  ally  of  the 
world  against  the  human  soul.  Now  I  have  always  had  my 
sermon  as  an  excuse  for  getting  out  of  everything  I  didn't 
want  to  do.  I  always  managed  to  make  the  writing  of  that 
sermon  last  me  nearly  all  week.  I  locked  myself  in  my 
study,  and  let  the  world  rush  past  outside.  In  my  study 
I  could  read  and  dream  and  think;  I  could  be  by  myself. 
Aren't  you  going  to  write  a  novel  or  something?  A  play,  I 
believe  it  was  Rose- Ann  spoke  of." 

"I'm — thinking  about  something  of  the  sort,"  said  Felix. 
It  was  true,  he  reflected,  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  any 
writing  done  lately !  One  could  not  write  with  parties  going 
on  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

"Well,  you'd  better  get  down  to  work  on  it  right  away. 
And  get  a  room  of  your  own  somewhere  to  do  it  in.  You're 


204  The  Briary-Bush 

just  married,  and  your  head  is  full  of  all  sorts  of  romantic 
nonsense  about  Rose- Ann,  who  is  a  very  fine  young  woman, 
but,  after  all,  a  woman ;  and  the  time  to  establish  your  right 
to  be  by  yourself  some  of  the  time  is  at  the  very  beginning. 
I  see  you  have  two  desks  up  there  in  front.  Do  you  expect 
to  work  there?" 

"Yes.     That  one  is  Rose-Ann's—" 

"And  the  other  is  yours.  And  when  you  are  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  you  find  that  Rose-Ann  has  come  over 
and  put  her  arms  around  your  neck.  Very  natural.  Very 
charming.  But  how  in  the  name  of  Prince  Beelzebub  are 
you  going  to  get  any  work  done  under  those  circumstances?" 

Felix  smiled.  It  certainly  was  odd,  to  have  one's  wife's 
father  take  your  side  against  her.  But  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  he  was  thinking  of  his  own  case.  He  had  doubtless 
had  to  lock  himself  in  his  study  to  be  free  from  the  encroach-, 
ments  of  domesticity.  But  Rose-Ann  was  different;  Rose- 
Ann  did  not  come  over  and  kiss  him  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence.  .  .  . 

"I  see  you  don't  take  my  warnings  seriously,"  said  the 
old  man.  "Well,  don't  say  I  didn't  do  my  best  for  you. 
Here  she  is  now." 

Rose-Ann  came  in,  crying  out,  "Dad!" — and  running  up 
to  him  flung  her  arms  about  him.  "You  didn't  tell  me  you 
were  coming!" 

Her  father  set  her  on  his  knees. 

"No,  Rosie,  I  didn't — and  I  see  I've  intruded  on  a  wild 
party.  But  if  you'll  not  tell  anybody  I'm  a  preacher  they 
won't  know  it.  I  won't  spoil  your  party!" 

"It's  only  our  house-warming,  and  of  course  I'm  glad 
you  came.  How  do  you  like  my  husband?"  She  looked 
proudly  at  Felix. 

"We've  become  very  well  acquainted,"  said  her  father. 
"I've  been  warning  him  against  you." 

"And  you've  been  getting  cigar-ashes  all  over  my  nice 
clean  floor,  too,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "Why  will  you  never, 
never  learn  to  use  an  ash-tray  ?" 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear,"  said  her  father  with  a  twinkle  at 


A  Father-in-Law  205 

Felix,  "but  I  thought  this  was  a  studio,  and  that  people  in 
studios  did  just  as  they  pleased." 

"Well,"  said  Rose-Ann,  "if  you're  not  going  to  be  a 
preacher  tonight,  you  can  help  Felix  get  things  ready  for  the 
cocktails.  I  have  a  million  sandwiches  to  fix,  myself. 
Take  off  your  coat  and  put  on  this  apron.  How  do  you 
like  our  studio?" 

"I  was  very  much  impressed  by  those  desks  up  in  the  front 
there,"  he  said  disingenuously,  smiling  at  Felix. 

"Yes,  that's  where  Felix  is  going  to  write  his  play,  and 
I'm  going  to  do — I  don't  know  just  what,  yet.  But  isn't  it 
all — wonderful,  father  !" 

"Wonderful!"  said  Rose-Ann's  father. 


Whether  it  was  the  effect  of  that  talk  or  not,  all  Felix's 
recent  social  sophistication  had  vanished  utterly,  and  the 
party  passed  after  the  usual  fashion  of  such  events  to  a  shy 
and  bewildered  person.  He  made  desperate  efforts  to 
remember  people's  names,  and  succeeded  once  or  twice;  at 
other  times  Rose-Ann  intervened  and  performed  that  pain 
ful  feat  for  him;  and  once  when  he  saw  two  people  beside 
him  who  had  not  yet  been  introduced,  and  whose  names  he 
knew  as  well  as  he  knew  his  own,  but  which  he  could  not  to 
save  his  life  think  of,  he  slunk  away  in  guilty  crimson  shame. 
An  old  lady — it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  a  favourite  prey 
of  old  ladies — got  him  into  a  corner  and  talked  to  him  for  a 
long  time  about  telepathy,  and  the  life  beyond  the  grave.  He 
could  not  recall  ever  having  seen  her  before,  and  he  wondered 
what  she  was  doing  at  his  house-warming.  "Yes,"  he  said 
earnestly  to  her — "yes!"  So  convincingly,  that  Rose-Ann, 
who  wanted  him  to  meet  Professor  Hedding  of  the 
University  of  Chicago,  left  him  alone  until  at  last  she  caught 
his  piteous  glance  of  appeal  and  came  and  bore  him  away. 
Howard  Morgan  was  there,  at  ease  as  always,  his  leonine 
grey  head  the  centre  of  a  phantasmagoria  which  he  seemed  to 
understand,  to  rule  with  a  glance,  a  smile,  a  word.  He  was 
enjoying  it  all. 


206  The  Briary-Bush 

"No,"  Felix  said  to  himself,  "I  shall  never  be  like  that !" 

His  father-in-law  wandered  up  to  him  as  he  stood  help 
lessly  aside.  He  seemed  to  Felix  to  be  about  to  ask,  "And 
is  this  the  kind  of  life  you  are  going  to  lead  ?"  But  instead, 
he  remarked,  "Your  friend  Mr.  Bangs  is  a  very  interesting 
young  man.  We  had  a  good  talk.  I  like  the  way  his  mind 
works." 

It  struck  Felix  as  the  oddest  aspect  of  his  fantastic 
fortunes  that  he  should  have  a  father-in-law— out  of  all 
possible  fathers-in-law ! — who  so  heartily  approved  of  him, 
approved  of  his  very  weakness,  and  of  his  maddest  friends ! 
What  he  might  have  expected  was :  "If  I  were  you,  I 
don't  think  I'd  see  too  much  of  that  young  man — he  has 
queer  ideas."  But  queer  ideas,  his  own  and  Clive's,  were, 
it  seemed,  not  merely  tolerable,  but  commendable.  .  .  . 

A  little  before  midnight,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Prentiss  took  his 
daughter  and  son-in-law  aside  and  said,  "I'm  getting  sleepy, 
so  I'm  going  to  my  train  and  try  to  get  a  little  sleep  between 
now  and  morning.  No,  don't  you  bother  about  seeing  me  off. 
But  you  must  come  and  visit  us  in  Springfield.  Sometime, 
I  mean — no  hurry — just  whenever  you  feel  like  it."  He 
shook  hands  with  Felix.  "Do,"  he  said.  Rose-Ann  kissed 
him,  and  he  slipped  quietly  away. 

"Father  likes  you,"  she  whispered. 

"He's  lovely,"  said  Felix. 

"He  told  me—" 

"What?" 

"Never  mind.     I'll  tell  you  some  other  time." 

"What?"  Felix  repeated. 

"Oh,  I  guess  the  same  things  he  told  you.  He  warned 
you  against  me.  And  he  warned  me,  too." 

"Against  met" 

"No.  Against  myself.  Come,  we  must  say  good-bye  to 
these  people." 


XXIX.  Interlude  at  Midnight 


CLIVE  stayed  a  few  minutes  after  the  others  to  give 
them  some  news.  Phyllis,  it  seemed,  was  desperately 
discontented  with  the  process  of  learning  to  be  a 
teacher.  And  he  had  been  talking  with  Howard  Morgan 
about  her— Howard  Morgan  had  spent  a  summer  in  Woods 
Point,  and  remembered  her  as  "the  pretty  girl  who  used  to 
drive  a  taxi" — and  he  had  become  interested  in  her  problem 
to  the  extent  of  offering  her  a  position  as  his  secretary  ("if 
she  can  type  manuscripts,  and  look  up  things  in  books"- 
he  was  at  work  now  on  a  grandiose  historical  poem) .  That, 
Give  had  remarked,  seemed  to  solve  the  problem  of  coming 
to  Chicago  for  her— if  she  accepted  it.  He  wanted  to  know 
what  they  thought  about  it. 

Rose-Ann  had  said,  a  little  wearily,  that  that  did  seem  to 
solve  the  problem  for  her. 

"So  you're  in  favour  of  it?"  Give  had  asked,  insistently. 

Rose-Ann  had  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It's  not  for  me 
to  decide!"  she  said,  and  so  Give,  thanking  her  in  an 
ironical  voice,  had  gone  away. 


And  as  soon  as  he  had  gone  Felix  began — or  thought  he 
began — to  understand  what  it  was  all  about.  .  .  .  And  yet, 
the  fancy  was  so  preposterous !  , 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  cautiously,  "why  Give  made  such  a 
fuss  about  that  offer  of  Howard  Morgan's  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "Leave  the  door  open  a  mo 
ment  to  let  the  smoke  out.  .  .  ." 

"What  kind  of  reputation  has  Howard  Morgan,  with — 
with  regard  to  girls  ?"  he  asked  point-blank. 

207 


208  The  Briary-Bush 

"Oh,"  said  Rose-Ann,  "the  usual  reputation  of  handsome 
poets,  old  and  young.  Why?" 

"Then,"  said  Felix,  " — then  that  was  what  Clive  was 
thinking  about!" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Rose- Ann.  "I  think  the  room's  aired 
out  now.  You  can  close  the  door." 

"But,"  said  Felix,  "It's  monstrous!" 

"What — oh,  you're  still  talking  about  Phyllis?  But  why 
be  angry  at  me  about  it?" 

"I'm  not  angry  at  you,  Rose- Ann ;  I'm  disgusted  with  Clive 
for  thinking  of  turning  her  over  to  that  old  scoundrel !  .  .  . 
You  don't  seem  to  care?" 

"Must  everybody  in  the  world  be  sorry  for  poor  Phyllis, 
and  anxious  about  poor  Phyllis,  and  worrying  about  poor 
Phyllis?"  Rose- Ann  demanded  in  a  tone  of  exasperation. 
"I'm  tired  of  her  problems,  myself.  Can't  she  decide  what 
she  wants  to  do  without  so  much  masculine  assistance? 
After  all,  all  I  said  was  that  it  wasn't  my  affair.  Let  her 
decide  for  herself.  .  .  .  And  shut  the  door,  please — it's  get 
ting  chilly.  ..." 

Felix  shut  the  door. 

"Well,  this  is  over,  anyiway!"  said  Rose-Ann,  walking 
back  behind  the  screen,  and  kicking  off  her  pumps. 

Felix  followed  her.     "What's  over?" 

"This  party,"  she  said,  letting  down  her  hair.  "A  lot  of 
cleaning  tomorrow,  and  then — never  again.  .  .  .  Felix,  I 
don't  want  you  to  be  a  perfect  host,  after  all.  You  don't 
have  to  be  anything  you  don't  want  to  be." 

"But  about  Phyllis,"  he  said.  "Surely  you  aren't  cold 
bloodedly  considering  her  becoming  the  mistress  of  that 
old—"  ' 

"Poets  don't  have  mistresses  nowadays,"  said  Rose-Ann, 
impersonally,  "at  least,  in  Chicago.  They  have  flirtations — 
and  'affairs.'  An  'affair'  may  mean  anything.  Howard 
Morgan  has  been  having  'affairs'  for  the  last  forty  years. 
I  was  surprised  that  he  didn't  have  some  pretty  girl  sitting 
on  his  lap  tonight.  He  does  it  in  such  a  fatherly  way  that 


Interlude  at  Midnight  209 

nobody  can  object,  not  even  his  wife.  After  all,  I  repeat,  it's 
Phyllis's  concern,  not  mine." 

"You  mean  that  she  might  be  agreeable  to  such  an  arrange 
ment?"  Felix  asked  angrily. 

"How  do  I  know  ?"  she  said.  "Put  out  the  candle,  will 
you,  Felix?" 

"I  can't  understand  you !"  he  said.  "I  thought  you  liked 
her?" 

"I  do,"  she  said.  "At  least,  I'm  willing  to  let  her  live 
her  own  life  as  she  sees  fit." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Felix,  blindly. 

"No,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "Of  course  you're  not.  You 
want  to  save  her  from  'that  old  scoundrel.'  But  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  do  it,  Felix,  except  by  divorcing  me,  and  marry 
ing  her  yourself.  And  just  because  you're  jealous  of 
Howard  Morgan — " 

"Jealous!     Rose- Ann !" 

" — Is  no  reason  for  quarrelling  with  me.  .  .  . 

"I'm  not  quarrelling  with  you,  Rose-Ann.  But  I  think 
you  are  trying  to  quarrel  with  me.  You  behave  as  though 
you  were  jealous,  yourself."  The  idea  had  seemed  absurd, 
until  he  stated  it;  then  he  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 
"Perhaps  you  are!" 

"Perhaps  I  am,  Felix.  But  I  wish  you  wouldn't  stalk  up 
and  down  while  you're  talking  to  me.  Of  course  I'm 
jealous,  Felix." 

"What  in  the  world  of?" 

"Of  Phyllis.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know  I'm  not  being  reasonable, 
Felix.  But  I'm  tired,  and  I've  been  scolded  by  my  father, 
and  made  to  feel  like — like  a  wife.  I  suppose  that's  why 
I'm  behaving  like  one.  And — and — damn  it  all,  I'm  going  to 
cry."  And  she  did. 


XXX.  Fathers  and  Daughters 


FELIX,  astonished  and  perturbed,  came  over  and  petted 
her.     "What's  the  matter,  darling?"  he  asked. 
"Oh,  Felix,"  she  said,  putting  her  head  against  his 
breast,  "do  you  love  me  ?" 

"Of  course  I  love  you!     Don't  you  know  it?" 

"I  suppose  so.  But — all  this — I've  felt  separated  from 
you.  I've  felt — I  don't  know  what — I  suppose  it  was  what 
my  father  said — that  this  was  just  going  to  be  him  and 
my  mother  all  over  again.  .  .  ." 

"He   said   that!" 

"No,  that  isn't  what  he  said.  But  that's  what  it  made  me 
feel.  Felix,  we  aren't  going  to  stop  loving  one  another  now, 
are  we?" 

"Of  course  not.     But  what  was  it  your  father  did  say?" 

"Nothing — only  he  spoke  of  how  many  distinguished 
friends  we  had,  and — I  knew  he  meant  it  all  satirically — and 
that  you-  had  the  makings  of  a  successful  man  in  you,  if 
they  were  properly  brought  out  by  an  ambitious  wife — 
meaning  me.  And  I  felt  as  though — as  though—  Felix, 
I  don't  want  to  behave  to  you  as  my  mother  did  to  my 
father.  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  quietly,  still  petting  her 
like  a  child. 

"You  know,  they  were  married  very  young,  and  he  gave 
up  business  for  the  ministry  after  they  were  married,  and 
we  were  very  poor  until  my  brothers  left  school  and  com 
menced  to  make  money — and  I  think  she  never  forgave  him 
for  that.  And  I've  always — " 

"Can't  we  live  our  own  life  and  love,  Rose-Ann,  without 

210 


Fathers  and  Daughters  211 

letting  it  get  mixed  up  with  our   fathers  and  mothers?" 
Felix  asked  sadly. 

Rose- Ann  rubbed  from  her  face  the  last  vestige  of  her 
tears.  "That's  why  I  didn't  want  father  to  come  to  see  us," 
she  said.  "In-laws  always  mess  things  up,  don't  they?" 

"Even  when  they  are  the  nicest  people  in  the  world,  like 
your  father." 

"Felix — I'm  so  glad  to  be  back  with  you  again — I  feel  as 
though  I  had  been  away  from  you,  somehow.  I  don't  like 
it." 

"Don't  go  away  again,  Rose-Ann-dear." 

"I  won't."  She  pressed  her  head  closer  against  his  breast. 
"I'll  never  go  away  again." 

Again  the  storm  had  passed,  leaving  Felix  again  wondering 
how  it  could  have  arisen.  Some  of  the*  things  they  had  said 
to  each  other  were  really  incredible.  How  hard  and  hostile 
they  had  been  to  each  other !  And — quarrelling  over  Phyllis ! 
Why,  the  whole  thing  was  absurd,  the  product  of  fevered 
imaginations.  .  .  .  Why  had  they  both  been  so  willing  to 
indulge  those  grotesque  fantasies  about  Phyllis  and  Howard 
Morgan?  .  .  .  And  then,  what  of  Rose- Ann's  freakish  ac 
cusation  against  him — for  that  was  what  it  amounted  to  !— 
of  being  in  love  with  Phyllis?  Phyllis,  whom  he  had  seen 
but  once  in  his  life,  and  that  on  the  occasion  of  his  own 
marriage!  Had  Rose- Ann  really  been  jealous?  It  was 
too  extravagantly  farcical. 

But  oughtn't  they  discuss  these  things,  and  settle  them, 
once  and  for  all?  Wasn't  that  what  their  mutual  candour 
was  for,  to  expose  and  kill  these  silly  doubts  and  fears  and 
suspicions?  Or — did  talking  about  such  things  only  give 
them  new  vitality?  Were  these  things  too  senseless  to 
talk  about? 

"I  love  you,  Felix." 

"I  love  you,  Rose-Ann." 

There  was  a  true  magic,  it  seemed,  in  words  like  those! 
They  brought  happiness  .  .  .  and  forgetfulness.  .  .  . 
"Darling.  .  .  ." 
"Yes.  .    ,  ." 


212  The  Briary-Bush 

"Did  we  have  a  quarrel?" 

"I  don't  know— did  we?" 

"Yes — but  what  was  it  about?" 

"I  can't  remember!" 

"Neither  can  I !" 

They  laughed  happily  at  their  folly. 


Yet  Felix  could  not  quite  understand  the  turn  of  affairs 
which  followed  the  brief  and  dynamic  intrusion  of  Rose- 
Ann's  father  into  their  domestic  life.  Rose-Ann  had 
changed.  The  most  obvious  manifestation  of  that  change 
was  the  complete  abandonment  of  all  her  social  plans. 

She  had  intended  to  give  a  number  of  parties  to  her 
"bourgeois  friends"  that  spring ;  but  they  were  never  given ; 
and  when  Felix  asked  why,  she  only  shook  her  head  and  said, 

"You  know  you  don't  like  parties,  Felix." 

Felix  was  quite  aware  that  he  did  not  like  parties.  But 
he  had  definitely  assessed  that  dislike  as  a  species  of  coward 
ice,  which  he  must  get  over.  Just  because  he  did  not 
like  parties  was  the  very  reason  why  he  should  try  to  learn 
to  like  them.  Other  people  liked  parties ;  and  he  wanted  to 
become  as  other  people  are'.  He  had  surrendered  himself  to 
Rose-Ann's  guidance.  He  trusted  her  as  a  mentor.  He 
had  worn  evening  clothes,  learned  to  carve  and  serve  a 
roast  of  beef,  talked  desperately  about  nothing  to  people 
whose  names  he  could  not  remember,  because  she  wanted 
him  to.  He  had  braced  himself  to  endure  the  worst  that 
the  social  life  had  to  offer;  he  would  do  whatever  she 
demanded.  And  now  suddenly  she  had  ceased  to  demand 
anything !  There  was  a  tremendous  relief  in  this  relaxation ; 
but  it  left  him  puzzled  and  brooding. 

"I  understood,"  he  said  to  her  hesitatingly  one  day,  "that 
you  had  undertaken  to  civilize  me.  Have  you  given  up  the 
task  as  hopeless  ?" 

"But  I  don't  want  to  civilize  you,  Felix!""  she  protested. 

"I  thought  you  did  want  to,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sorry  you  thought  that,"  she  said. 


Fathers  and  Daughters  213 

"Then  what,"  he  insisted,  "do  you  want  me  to  be,  if  not 
civilized?" 

"An  artist,"  she  said. 

He  laughed.     "That  is  too  easy,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him  with 
incredulous  wide-open  eyes  and  parted  lips. 

"Rose-Ann,  I've  always  been  an  artist.  That's  the  trouble 
with  me.  I  don't  say  I've  been  a  good  artist.  I've  nothing 
to  show  for  my  art-ing  except  a  barrelful  of  youthful 
poems,  an  unfinished  novel  that  I  burned  up  before  I  came 
to  Chicago,  and  a  few  fantastic  fragments  of  impossible 
plays.  But  I've  been  an  artist  all  the  same,  and  I'll  tell 
you  why  I'm  sure  of  it.  There  are  two  kinds  of  people 
in  the  world — artists  and  human  beings.  I've  never  been 
a  human  being;  so  I  must  have  been  an  artist.  And  I 
don't  want  to  be  any  longer!" 

She  looked  at  him,  frightened  at  this  heresy. 

"But  Felix !"  she  said. 

"And  I  thought  you  were  going  to  help  me,"  he  said. 

"To  stop  being  an  artist  ?"  she  cried,  starting  up  as  though 
a  dreadful  accusation  had  been  flung  at  her. 

"To  be  a  human  being,"  he  said,  laughingly. 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  of  alarm. 

"I  can't  think  you  mean  it !"  she  said. 

"Perhaps  I  don't.  .  .  .  It's  hard  to  tell  what  one  really 
does  mean,"  he  said,  discouraged.  "I  don't  mean  that  I 
shan't  keep  on  trying  to  write  plays — if  that's  what  you  are 
afraid  of." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said.     "Only,  Felix- 

"Yes?" 

"You  must  do  what  you  want  to  do;  not  what  you  think 
I  want  you  to  do!" 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  he  asked;  for  it  sounded  cryptic, 
as  if  charged  with  hidden  meanings. 

"Because,"  she  said,  "I  think  we've  been  going  on  a  wrong 
basis.  I've — done  things  to  you  I  didn't  intend.  I'm 
sorry.  .  .  .  And  from  now  on  I'm  going  to — let  you  alone." 

He  laughed.     "All  right !"  he  said. 


214  The  Briary-Bush 

3 

He  thought  he  knew  what  she  meant.  Not  in  vain  had 
dozens  of  novels  been  written  in  which  the  young  wife 
subtly  corrupts  her  artist  husband  into  prosperous  mediocrity. 
So  that  was  what  Rose-Ann  was  afraid  of!  She  did  not 
know  that  the  artist  chooses  his  wife  in  the  profound  uncon 
scious  hope  of  being  led  down  from  the  perilous  icy  heights 
of  lonely  poetic  ecstasy  into  the  green  valleys  of  everyday 
human  life.  .  .  . 

That  Rose-Ann  wanted  him  to  dwell  with  her  here  in 
these  green  valleys  he  did  not  doubt.  She  wanted  him  to 
be  successful.  But  she  did  not  want  to  be  blamed  for  his 
success ! 

He  could  understand  that. 

Well,  he  would  take  the  responsibility  upon  himself. 

He  would  become  what,  in  her  secret  heart,  and  in  spite 
of  all  her  protestations,  she  really  wanted  him  to  be. 


XXXI.  More  or  Less  Theatrical 


MEANWHILE,  with  summer  coming  on,  Felix  had 
wondered  what  an  assistant  dramatic  editor  would 
find  to  do.  He  learned  from  Hawkins  that  the 
management  traditionally  continued  the  Saturday  dramatic 
department  through  the  season,  though  in  a  restricted  space. 
Later,  in  anticipation  of  the  opening  of  the  theatrical  season, 
he  could  print  the  news  of  what  New  York  and  London 
held  in  prospect  for  the  Chicago  public.  And  for  the  present 
a  column  or  two  once  a  week  could  be  furbished  up  somehow 
— the  how  of  it  being  left  entirely  to  Felix's  own  discretion 
and  ingenuity. 

"Interviews — clip-stuff  from  the  London  weeklies  of  last 
winter — anything  to  keep  going,"  said  Hawkins,  cleaning  up 
his  desk  and  going  home  on  a  formal  leave  of  absence  for 
the  summer  to  rewrite  his  play — which,  it  appeared,  had 
impressed  a  New  York  manager  and  only  needed  to  be 
"strengthened"  in  its  second  act. 

Felix,  according  to  his  arrangement  with  Willie  Smith, 
was  to  write  "something  light,"  every  day  if  possible,  for 
the  editorial  page ;  and  that  done,  nobody  cared  what  he  put 
in  the  Saturday  "Plays  and  Acting"  column.  With  Hawkins 
away,  he  felt  that  he  had  a  free  hand.  And  the  fact  that 
there  were  no  new  plays  to  criticize  did  not  matter  much, 
for  the  kind  of  criticism  that  Felix  liked  to  write  subsisted 
quite  as  well  on  familiar  plays  that  everybody  had  seen 
as  upon  brand-new  ones — better,  perhaps. 

Felix  was  rather  humble  about  the  kind  of  dramatic 
criticism  he  wrote ;  though  that  humility  merely  concealed, 
from  himself  and  others,  a  fierce  egotistic  pride.  For  his 
attitude  toward  plays  was  different  from  that  of  any  other 

215 


216  The  Briary-Bush 

dramatic  critic  whose  work  he  had  ever  seen.  It  was,  in  a 
sense,  not  a  "critical"  attitude  at  all.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  his  commentaries  had  been  so  well  received,  by  the 
management  and  the  readers  of  the  Chronicle.  It  was  at 
least  an  agreeable  novelty.  But  Felix  knew  quite  well 
that  he  did  not  have  either  the  experience  or  the  knowledge 
necessary  to  do  the  job  in  the  usual  way.  Truth  to  tell,  he 
both  stood  in  awe  of,  and  despised,  the  usual  way.  .  .  . 
The  regular  critics  were  always  telling  you  whether  a  play 
was  good  or  bad,  and  why,  and  assessing  expertly  the  merits 
of  various  bits  of  acting.  Old  Jennison,  "the  dean/'  as  he 
was  sometimes  called,  "of  the  critical  fraternity,"  could 
remember  the  way  Somebody  had  played  Hamlet,  and  how 
Miss  Somebody  Else  had  done  the  "great  scene"  in  "Camille," 
and  he  told  you  all  about  it  apropos  of  the  latest  play. 
This,  doubtless,  was  real  criticism,  but  of  a  kind  Felix 
could  not  aspire  to,  for  he  had  never  seen  Anybody  in 
Anything.  On  the  other  hand,  Hawkins  was  gravely  an 
enthusiast  for  modernity,  as  represented  by  Ibsen  and  Shaw, 
and  took  occasion  to  point  out  the  duty  of  American  drama 
to  bestir  itself  and  deal  with  the  problems  of  the  time. 
Then,  of  course,  there  was  a  third  kind  of  criticism,  for 
which  Felix  had  little  respect — the  enthusiastic  pounding 
of  drums  outside  the  tent  of  some  favourite  actor  or  actress. 
And  there  was  a  fourth  kind,  for  which  Felix  had  no 
respect  at  all,  but  to  which  he  sometimes  feared  his  own 
work  belonged — the  smart-aleck  kind  of  criticism. 

He  confessedly  did  not  know  very  much  about  the  art 
of  acting,  and  could  not  even  say  that  some  part  was  played 
"in  a  masterly  manner,"  let  alone  tell  the  poor  devil  of  an 
actor  how  he  should  have  played  it.  He  was,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  not  interested  in  the  technique  of  acting,  but  only 
in  the  effects  produced.  And,  though  he  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  it,  he  could  not  really  feel  that  the  stage  had 
any  "duties,"  either  to  modern  problems  or  anything  else. 
He  still  got  a  childlike  thrill  out  of  the  fantasies  enacted 
behind  the  footlights — at  least  for  the  first  few  moments 
after  the  curtain  went  up.  And  then,  as  that  magic  vanished 


More  or  Less  Theatrical  217 

for  him,  and  he  became  bored  by  the  dull  spectacle  and 
unconvincing  dialogue  on  the  stage,  he  became  interested 
in  the  audience,  for  whom  evidently  this  magic  still  persisted. 
He  wondered  why,  and  tried  to  see  the  play  with  their 
eyes,  to  find  the  things  in  it  that  held  them,  if  not  breathless, 
at  least  coughless,  for  minutes  at  a  time.  What  emotions 
were  those  that  were  so  touched  by  the  cheap  tears  and 
tawdry  heroisms  of  'The  Witching  Hour"  and  "The  Third 
Degree"  ?  Why  was  it  that  they  liked  to  see  the  heroine  in 
distress,  the  hero  unjustly  accused?  Felix  set  himself  the 
task  of  proving  that  he  knew  why  they  liked  these  things— 
and  he  described  the  commonplace  predicaments  and  familiar 
crises  of  current  drama  in  terms  which  conveyed  to  his 
own  mind  some  real  emotional  excitement,  with  only  a 
touch  or  two  of  humorous  satire  as  he  resumed  his  own 
proper  character  as  a  philosophic  observer.  He  found  that 
he  could  translate  the  most  absurd  plot  into  something 
authentically  interesting  to  himself — as  if  the  worst  play  in 
the  world  were,  after  all,  only  a  good  play  badly  conceived. 
And  in  this  mood,  seeing  bad  plays  through  the  eyes  of  an 
audience  to  whom  they  were  interesting,  he  too  became 
interested.  He  discovered  some  at  least  of  the  secrets  of 
that  wish-world  of  the  theatre,  in  which  what  happens  is 
what  we  want  to  happen :  and,  only  when  conscience  pinches 
too  hard,  and  reminds  us  that  crime  must  be  punished  and 
virtue  rewarded,  what  ought  to  happen — but  not  at  all,  no, 
never,  a  place  where  things  happen  as  they  do  in  everyday 
life!  A  strange  world  of  pseudo-realities,  elaborately 
persuading  us  at  the  outset  that  it  is  the  same  world  of 
nouses  and  streets  as  ours,  inhabited  by  people  like  our 
selves,  wearing  the  same  clothes  and  talking  the  same  talk, 
ruled  by  the  same  eternal  laws  of  probability — and  then 
making  come  true  for  us  for  an  hour  our  wildest,  silliest, 
loveliest,  most  impossible  dreams! 


It  was  fascinating,  this  imaginative  insight  into  people's 
minds.     And — in  the  absence  of  a  real  play — a  vaudeville 


218  The  Briary-Bush 

act  or  moving-picture  or  burlesque  show  afforded  him  the 
same,  or  even  a  more  profound  and  startling,  enlightenment. 

One  evening  that  summer  he  went  with  Rose-Ann  to  a 
burlesque  theatre  on  South  State  street.  He  noted  the 
people  who  went  in — workingmen,  toughs,  sailors,  young 
men  wearing  the  latest  Arrow  collar,  and  husbands  accom 
panied  by  their  wives.  In  the  street  outside,  the  wind 
picked  up  a  litter  of  dust  and  paper  and  flung  it  into 
people's  faces.  Over  the  roofs  of  tall  buildings  a  dim  moon 
shone  in  a  cloudy  sky.  The  brightest  thing  in  this  street 
was  the  arc-lighted  promise  of  the  theatre-entrance :  "Refined 
Burlesque !" 

In  the  front  row,  in  an  aisle  seat,  was  a  white-haired 
man  who  seemed  to  be  nearly  a  hundred  years  old;  he 
sat  there  with  an  air  of  having  occupied  that  seat  once 
every  week  since  the  theatre  was  built.  Midway  of  the 
parquet  floor  sat  a  placid  matron  of  fifty,  beside  her  fat 
and  complacent  husband;  their  views  on  all  subjects  must 
have  coincided  exactly  with  those  of  Dr.  Parkhurst — they 
were  solid  blocks  in  the  fabric  of  our  American  civilization 
— and  they  had  come  here  to  find  something  which  their 
life  required,  not  to  be  had  elsewhere.  About  them  was  a 
grey  mass  of  padded  masculine  shoulders,  with  here  and 
there,  in  twos  and  threes,  girls,  making  spots  of  colour  on 
the  greyness.  Above,  the  balcony  buzzed — and  the  peanut- 
gallery  filled  suddenly  like  the  breaking  of  a  dam.  An 
orchestra  of  seven  filed  in.  And  a  hush,  not  of  eagerness 
but  of  religious  certainty,  filled  the  theatre.  In  fifteen  hun 
dred  souls  there  was  the  calm  that  comes  of  utter  confidence 
in  the  absolution  (or,  as  Aristotle  would  say,  katharsis!) 
which  they  were  about  to  receive.  .  .  . 

No  one  had  come  there  for  novelty;  they  had  come  for 
the  familiar  and  satisfying  benediction  of  burlesque.  The 
old  rite  had  changed  a  little  with  the  changing  times — it 
pretended  to  be  a  "musical  comedy" — but  the  heart  of  the 
ancient  mystery  was  still  there.  The  tunes  were  those 
invented  by  Jubal,  father  of  all  such  as  handle  the  harp  and 
organ — revised  slightly,  year  by  year ;  the  first  chord  awoke 


More  or  Less  Theatrical  219 

dim  ancestral  memories.  There  was  a  trace  of  plot  on  the 
program,  and  the  name  of  an  author;  but  no  one  was  de 
ceived.  For,  to  put  any  doubts  at  rest,  and  to  make  clear 
that  this  was  simply  the  ten  millionth  performance  of  the 
seasonal  festival  invented  by  Adam  (after  a  hard  day's 
work  pulling  eucalyptus  stumps  to  the  westward  of  Eden), 
it  was  entitled,  in  the  good  old  traditional  manner,  "The 
Jolly  Girls." 

The  orchestra  played  its  immemorial  tunes,  the  sons  of 
Adam  leaned  a  little  forward  with  a  beatific  look  on  their 
faces,  the  curtain  rose,  and  the  festival,  the  sacred  orgy, 
began.  The  stage  was  filled  with  Beauty,  in  the  form  of 
four  dozen  female  legs,  while  in  the  right  wing  waited 
Laughter,  in  the  shape  of  a  little  man  with  a  putty  nose. 
The  legs  burst  upon  the  scene  in  a  blaze  of  light  and  sound— 
a  kaleidoscope  of  calf  and  ankle,  a  whirl  of  soft  pink 
feminine  contours,  a  paradisiac  vision  of  essential  Girl :  the 
whole  theatre  breathed  forth  a  sigh  of  happiness,  and  the 
sons  of  Adam  leant  back  in  their  seats,  content.  The  prom 
ise  of  the  dionysiac  god  to  them  that  toiled  and  bore  harsh 
burdens,  was  being  fulfilled. 

The  legs,  encased  in  pink  tights,  moved  forward  and 
back,  up  and  down.  Somewhere  above  them  were  lungs 
and  larynxes  that  poured  forth  a  volume  of  sound,  in  time 
to  the  hypnotic  throb  of  the  music.  Gradually,  in  the  melee, 
arms  became  visible,  and,  vaguely  connecting  the  arms  and 
legs,  pieces  of  colored  cloth  that  finally  became  definite  as 
golden  tunics,  green  sashes,  scarlet  bodices.  Moreover, 
there  were  faces — but  not  real  faces  of  weariness  or  anger 
or  sadness,  to  disturb  the  illusion — these  faces  were  masks, 
painted  to  express  an  impersonal  and  disinterested  pleasure 
in  the  exhibition  of  bodily  charms.  Pink  cheeks,  bistred 
eyelashed  depths  that  emitted  glances  at  the  corners,  car- 
mined  lips  set  in  an  imperishable  smile — these  served  as  the 
perfect  and  sufficient  symbols  of  a  joy  that  never  was  on 
sea  or  land. — But  faces,  after  all,  belong  to  another  world, 
the  world  of  reality;  if  one  looks  at  them  too  long,  one 
sees  them,  and  the  dream  vanishes ;  so  they  were  extinguished 


22O  The  Briary-Bush 

presently  by  a  row  of  flying  legs  and  arms — the  scene  became 
a  chaos  of  feminine  extremities,  the  music  rose  to  a  climax, 
and  stopped,  as  the  chorus  left  the  stage.  Entered  the  man 
with  the  putty  nose. 

He  spoke  to  somebody,  in  a  rapid,  monotonous,  unintel 
ligible  voice;  it  did  not  matter,  he  was  only  telling  what 
the  plot  of  the  piece  was.  His  real  function  was  revealed 
a  minute  later,  when  two  tramps — a  tall  one  and  a  short 
one — entered,  and  the  tall  one  hit  him  over  the  head  with 
a  stick.  The  victim  fell  on  his  putty  nose.  The  house 
rocked  with  laughter,  and  the  gallery  stormed  applause. 

What  secret  wish  is  gratified  when  we  see  man  who  was 
created  in  the  image  of  God  falling  bump  on  his  nose? 
Irresistibly,  by  a  profound  impulse,  we  laugh.  The  cares 
of  the  day,  the  harsh  realities  of  life,  fade  away  when  in 
the  golden  land  of  Never-never  a  tall  man  enters  with  his 
short  companion  and  hits  the  third  man  (he  of  the  putty 
nose)  over  the  head  with  a  slapstick. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  the  small  man  was  hit 
over  the  head  fifty-seven  hundred  times;  he  rose  but  to  fall 
again,  more  helplessly  than  before.  He  was  also  kicked — 
in  the  nose,  in  the  ear,  in  front  and  behind.  His  nose  was 
pulled  into  an  infinite  variety  of  shapes,  being  made  to 
resemble  every  object  under  heaven  from  a  telephone  wire 
to  a  turnip.  He  submitted  meekly,  and  upon  him  the  desire 
of  the  whole  audience  to  see  mankind  made  ridiculous  was 
visited  times  without  number. 

Genially,  casually,  the  tall  man  kicked  him  in  the  face 
whenever  he  happened  to  notice  him.  The  tall  man  had 
taken  possession  of  the  stage.  Singing,  dancing,  clowning, 
guying,  arguing,  wheedling,  mocking,  bullying — now  as  an 
unshaven  tramp,  a  few  minutes  later  as  an  unshaven  Turk, 
then  as  an  unshaven  pirate — whatever  a  man  could  be  and 
do  without  first  submitting  to  that  odious  refinement  of 
civilization,  the  clean  shave;  in  a  dozen  different  costumes, 
always  delightful  and  irresponsible  and  seductive,  and  always 
accompanied  by  his  short  comrade,  he  pervaded  the  evening. 


More  or  Less  Theatrical  221 

He  spoke,  and  the  audience  laughed;  he  refrained  from 
speaking,  and  the  audience  laughed. 

His  slapstick,  that  magic  wand  which  had  only  to  touch 
things  to  make  them  funny,  was  like  himself.  He  had  slap 
stick  shoulders,  slapstick  eyebrows,  ears,  nose,  legs,  poste 
riors ;  he  acted  with  all  of  these,  eloquently— and  at  each 
gesture  some  ideal  of  human  dignity  was  knocked  on  the 
head  and  tumbled  on  its  nose.  He  sang,  walked  across  the 
room,  made  love— and  these  actions,  to  the  immense  satis 
faction  of  the  audience,  were  revealed  as  essentially  absurd. 
The  precious  gift  he  brought  was  a  genial  vulgarity,  a  hila 
rious  cheapening  of  the  values  of  normal  life.  When  he 
spoke,  with  irresistible  drollery,  about  women,  about  work, 
about  marriage,  about  anything  in  the  world,  it  became  not 
worth  a — his  abrupt  gesture  told  what — and  the  stout  matron 
in  the  middle  of  the  parquet  became  hysterical  with  laughter. 
For  a  moment  she  was  not  a  solid  block  in  the  structure  of 
our  respectable  American  civilization — she  was  a  rebellious 
child,  delightedly  come  into  a  dream  world  where  all  burdens 
are  lifted,  all  values  transvalued.  It  seemed  to  do  her 
good.  .  .  .  Then  two  dimpled  soubrettes  sang  another  song. 

In  and  out  between  these  episodes  floated  the  chorus, 
shaking  its  immortal  legs.  The  legs  and  their  owners 
classified  themselves  into  three  ranks  or  hierarchies  of  fleshly 
charm :  in  front,  the  "little  ones,"  the  "ponies" ;  in  the  next 
row,  the  "mediums";  and,  last  and  most  sumptuous,  the 
"big  ones,"  the  "show  girls."  The  big  ones  were  the  piece 
de  resistance;  no  frills,  no  sauces,  but  a  satisfying  super 
abundance.  All  that  the  hungry  eye  desired  was  bodied 
forth  in  these  vast  and  shapely  statues  of  feminine  flesh, 
tipping  the  scales  at  not  less  than  two  hundred  pounds. 
Two  hundred  pounds  of  arm  and  leg,  bust  and  buttock; 
here  was  riches,  here  was  Golconda — two  hundred  pounds 
of  female  meat!  A  thousand  hungry  eyes  feasted  raptur 
ously  on  the  sight. 

But  this  was  not  the  ultimate  magic  of  burlesque. 

A  storm  of  applause,  and  a  young  woman  entered  on  one 


222  The  Briary-Bush 

toe,  kicking  the  zenith  with  the  other.  A  young  woman? 
A  pinwheel,  a  skyrocket,  a  slender  feminine  firework! 
Feminine?  Not  with  the  obvious  allurements  of  her  sex. 
Her  figure  was  like  that  of  a  boy;  boyish  was  the  mis 
chievous  face  that  sparkled  behind  the  tangle  of  her  short 
curls.  She  was  like  a  sword-blade  in  this  poppyfield  of 
easy  dreams.  Her  soul  was  adventurous,  like  her  legs; 
she  kicked  open  the  zenith  with  her  boisterous  boyish  laugh. 
She  defied  the  code  of  this  tinsel  dream-world,  in  which 
women  burn  with  the  ready  fires  of  miscellaneous  invitation ; 
she  seemed  beyond  sex.  Nor  was  she  a  mere  bundle  of 
graceful  muscles.  She  had,  shining  in  contrast  to  all  this 
impersonal  eroticism,  a  hint  of  personality,  a  will  of  her 
own,  an  existence  independent  of  the  wishes  of  the  audience. 
She  smiled  at  them,  but  scornfully,  'indifferently,  mis 
chievously, — and  triumphed  over  them.  That  touch  of 
reality  gave  a  momentary  sharp  savour  to  the  too-cloying 
illusion.  Then  she  left  the  stage — on  her  hands — and  the 
dream-festival  went  on  as  before. 

The  music  pounded  itself,  with  endless  repetition,  through 
the  senses,  into  the  soul.  The  rhythm  of  legs  became  the 
rhythm  of  the  universe.  The  people  of  the  audience  were 
absolutely  at  one  with  each  other  and  with  the  genius  of 
the  slapstick,  who  talked  to  them  familiarly  now,  as  his 
friends.  Cries  and  handclaps  of  applause  mingled  with  the 
rhythm.  The  heart  of  the  theatre  beat  gigantically,  joy 
ously,  ecstatically.  The  play  rose  to  its  climax.  To  the 
tune  of  "Yankee  Doodle,"  the  young  firework  appeared, 
turning  handsprings,  an  American  flag  on  the  seat  of  her 
pants.  Walking  on  her  ear,  she  crossed  the  stage,  waving 
the  flag  in  the  faces  of  the  audience.  The  audience 
applauded  in  patriotic  frenzy.  They  would  have  died  for 
that  flag. 

The  curtain  fell,  rose  a  foot  from  the  floor,  and  disclosed 
a  row  of  legs — legs — legs — twinkling  across  behind  the  foot 
lights.  Into  those  legs  was  concentrated  the  infinite  sorcery 
of  the  theatre.  .  .  .  But  it  was  time  to  go  home.  It  was 


More  or  Less  Theatrical  223 

time  to  re-enter  the  world  of  reality.— Another  leg 
appeared,  the  eloquent  left  leg  of  the  tall  slapstick  comedian, 
clothed  round  with  heavy  woolen  drawers  and  clasped  by  a 
Boston  garter.  It  seemed  to  say:  "After  all,  my  friends, 
a  leg  is  only  a  leg!"  The  spell  was  broken,  and  the  audience 
began  slowly  to  file  out  into  the  dusty  street. 


XXXII.  Duty 


FELIX,  having  torn  up  all  his  previous  attempts,  was 
again  at  work  upon  a  play.     It  seemed  clear  to  him 
now  that  plays  were  not  written  to  please  the  author : 
they  were  written  to  please  the  public. 

There  was  plenty  of  time  to  work,  now.  They  were 
seeing  hardly  anybody  that  summer.  Clive  came  occas 
ionally,  and  they  spent  a  few  week-ends  at  his  place  in 
Woods  Point.  They  did  not  see  Phyllis,  for  she  was  still 
at  the  normal  school,  having  heroically  decided  to  shorten 
the  term  of  her  training  by  taking  the  summer  course. 
Dorothy  Sheridan  came  once  or  twice  to  their  studio  before 
leaving  to  spend  the  summer  in  some  eastern  fishing  village 
where  things  were  very  "paintable."  Howard  Morgan  had 
dropped  in  one  evening  to  smoke  a  cigarette  with  them. 
They  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  taciturn  etcher  in  the 
studio  next  door,  and  of  an  unhappily  married  boy-painter 
who  lived  around  the  corner  and  who  used  sometimes  to 
take  refuge  from  domestic  infelicities  in  a  cup  of  their 
coffee.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  Felix  that  in  these  idle  summer  months, 
with  life  flowing  lazily  past  in  the  sunshine,  he  should  be 
able  to  accomplish  something  in  play-writing.  Certainly 
there  was  nothing  else  to  distract  or  excite  him. 

He  went  about  his  task  soberly  and  conscientously  this 
time.  He  undertook  to  learn  how  plays  were  written. 
He  read  books  on  "play-construction."  He  even,  conquering 
his  instinctive  distaste,  studied  the  methods  of  Pinero  and 
H.  A.  Jones.  Their  plays  bored  him  ineffably — they  seemed 
trite,  false,  vulgar  and  dull.  But  the  public  had  liked  them, 
and  doubtless  they  had  something  to  teach  him. 

224 


Duty  225 

"Why  don't  you  write  what  you  want  to,  in  your  own 
way?"  Rose- Ann  would  ask  impatiently. 

But  he  did  not  want  to  write  "in  his  own  way."  The 
things  he  had  written  to  suit  himself  that  spring,  the 
fantastic  dramatic  fragments  which  he  had  torn  up  in 
disgust,  were  too  utterly  freakish,  too  whimsical  and 
absurd.  He  wanted  to  prove  that  he  could  write  something 
else— something  that  was  not  so  damnably  "different."  He 
wanted  to  write  a  regular  three-act  play,  of  the  sort  that 
audiences  liked,  and  he  was  going  to  learn  to  do  it  if  it  took 
five  years.  ...  It  had  taken  Hawkins  five  years  to  get  to  a 
point  where  he  could  impress  a  manager— Hawkins,  lending 
him  a  book  on  play-construction,  had  confessed  as  much.  .  .  . 
And  Hawkins  was  now  on  the  verge  of  a  brilliant  success. 
He  had  gone  to  New  York  to  collaborate  with  the  manager 
on  a  few  final  changes. 

It  was  slow  going,  this  way ;  but  Felix  was  not  discouraged. 
It  seemed  good  to  struggle  at  an  uncongenial  task.  Event 
ually  he  would  conquer  its  difficulties.  He  might  continue 
to  "get  by"  with  freakish  criticism ;  but  he  was  going  to  be 
a  writer  of  plays  that  ordinary  people  could  recognize  as 
plays.  It  was  not  his  business  to  please  himself ;  Bernard 
Shaw  might  do  that— but  he,  Felix,  was  not  Bernard  Shaw; 
it  was  his  business  to  adapt  himself  to  the  realities  of 
current  play-writing.  ...  He  told  all  this  to  Rose-Ann,  who 
listened  in  hostile  silence. 

Rose-Ann  had  changed,  become  less  poignantly  restless. 
She  seemed  to  have  discovered  a  new  way  of  occupying 
herself— or  rediscovered  an  old  way,  long  since  abandoned. 
"When  I  was  a  little  girl,"  she  said,  "I  used  to  read  books 
all  the  time.  I  found  them  so  much  more  satisfying  than 
actual  life.  And  then  I  stopped  reading,  and  tried  to  live. 
I've  hardly  read  anything  since  I  came  to  Chicago.  ...  So 
there's  lots  of  things  I  want  to  read." 

She  read,  day  after  day,  from  the  time  Felix  rose  fron 
their  breakfast  of  grapefruit  and  coffee  and  cigarettes,  till 
afternoon,  lying  curled  up  among  the  pillows  of  the  window 
seat;  she  went  out  for  luncheon  somewhere  alone,  and  sat 


226  The  Briary-Bush 

in  the  Park  all  afternoon  or  wandered  through  the  Museum 
whose  crumbling  stucco  porticos  of  nobly  antique  pattern 
looked  themselves  like  relics  of  some  departed  race;  taking 
with  her  a  book,  which  she  seldom  opened,  but  which  served 
for  companionship — and  a  notebook,  in  which  she  wrote 
sentences  and  paragraphs  which  Felix  found  she  would 
rather  he  did  not  read.  "They  seem  just  to  belong  to  me," 
she  said,  shyly. 

She  had  retired  into  some  inner  chamber  of  her  self,  to 
think  and  dream;  and  the  books,  the  walks,  the  wanderings 
among  fragments  of  dead  antiquity,  the  solitude,  were  all  a 
part  of  this  dream  life.  .  .  .  The  books  which  she  read,  a 
chapter  or  two  at  a  time,  putting  one  aside  to  take  up 
another,  were  such  as  took  the  mind  into  strange  worlds, 
like  "Thais"  and  "The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill" ;  or  those 
which  told  the  adventures  of  a  soul  in  contact  with  a  new 
world  which  it  finds  strange  and  perilous,  like  "The  Dam 
nation  of  Theron  Ware"  and  "The  Red  and  the  Black." 
Or  books  of  anthropology  and  of  poetry,  those  two  ideal 
guides  of  the  stay-at-home  traveller  in  quest  of  strangeness. 
So  much  Felix  curiously  noted,  and  reflected  that  he  had 
been  at  home  in  those  strange  worlds  all  his  life  and  was  now 
trying  a  greater  adventure — the  discovery  of  the  familiar 
and  commonplace  world  in  which  he  actually  lived.  .  .  . 

When  Felix  left  the  office,  having  hastily  written  "some 
thing  light"  for  the  editorial  page,  or  furbished  up  a  few 
paragraphs  for  the  dramatic  column,  he  would  come  home 
to  the  studio  and  work  fiercely  and  painfully  for  two  or 
three  hours. 

"But,  Felix,  you  work  too  hard!''  Rose- Ann  had  said  to 
him.  "That  isn't  the  way  to  work!"  Whatever  the  way 
to  work  might  be,  he  had  not  yet  found  it;  but  at  least  he 
could  try.  .  .  .  And  late  in  the  afternoon,  throwing  down  his 
pen  with  a  sense  of  duty  done,  he  would  go  to  the  Park, 
and  find  Rose-Ann  waiting  for  him  on  a  bench,  with  book 
and  note-book  in  her  lap.  They  would  find  some  cool  place 
to  dine,  and  then  walk  for  hours  along  the  shore  of  the 
lake,  talking. 


Duty  227 

Yes,  Rose-Ann  had  changed,  become  less  fiery  and  im 
patient,  more  calm.  And  coming  at  this  hour  out  of  that 
inner  chamber  of  self  in  which  she  spent  her  days,  she 
brought  to  him  quaint  and  lovely  thoughts,  delicate  and 
ironic  fancies,  things  that  charmed  and  allured  his 
imagination. 

2 

She  told  him  one  day  the  story  of  a  "girl-goldsmith,"  a 
figure  that  seemed  to  have  captured  her  imagination,  in  a 
book  called  "Klaus  Hinrich  Bass,"  by  a  German  clergyman 
named  Frenssen — a  startling  story  to  be  written  by  a  clergy 
man,  Felix  thought ;  but,  reflecting  upon  Rose- Ann's  father, 
he  remembered  that  he  knew  very  little  about  clergymen 
after  all.  It  was  the  story  of  a  girl  who  believed  in  the 
truth  and  goodness  of  her  instincts ;  Rose-Ann  told  it  with 
such  zest  and  poetic  feeling  that  he  read  it  one  afternoon, 
when  she  was  away  in  the  Park,  for  himself ;  and  he  found 
that  she  had  re-created  it  in  her  own  imagination,  giving  to 
Frenssen's  idyl  of  sweet  and  fearless  love  some  motives 
and  meanings  which  it  did  not  seem  to  him  to  possess  as  he 
read  it  in  the  pages  of  the  book ;  it  was  as  if  Rose- Ann  knew 
some  things  about  that  girl-goldsmith  which  Frenssen  him 
self  had  not  guessed.  .  .  .  And  sometimes,  when  Rose- Ann 
told  some  story  she  had  read,  and  Felix  asked  her  whose 
it  was,  she  pretended  to  have  forgotten — and  he  wondered 
if  it  were  not  her  own.  But  he  feared  to  demand  the 
truth,  lest  the  shy  beginnings  of  creative  effort  be  frightened 
by  his  questioning. 

It  was  strange  sometimes  to  feel  that  she  was  entering 
the  world  of  dreams  just  as  he  was  leaving  it. 

One  hot  July  evening,  when  he  wanted  to  work  on  his 
play,  she  insisted  on  .his  coming  outdoors  with  her.  "You 
don't  want  to  work,"  she  said.  "You  know  it!" 

"Isn't  that  a  good  reason  for  working,  perhaps?"  he  said. 
He  had  that  day  had  a  note  from  Hawkins  in  New  York,  and 
Hawkins's  patient  plodding  and  prospective  success  were 
making  him  feel  ashamed  of  his  own  laziness. 


228  The  Briary-Bush 

She  showed  a  touch  of  her  old  impatience.  "Has  it 
come  to  this !"  she  said.  "Felix,  do  you  really  think  the 
way  to  be  an  artist  is  to  do  all  the  things  you  don't  want 
to  do?  I  wonder  if  you  take  our  marriage  in  the  same 
spirit !  Am  I  a  duty,  too  ?" 

"Ridiculous  child !"  he  said,  and  went  out  with  her. 

"We're  going  to  take  a  ride  on  the  lagoon,"  she  said,  and 
led  him  to  the  landing  place,  where  a  little  launch  presently 
chugged  up  and  discharged  its  dozen  passengers.  Felix  and 
Rose-Ann  clambered  in,  and  sat  in  the  bow.  The  other 
waiting  people  followed  them,  and  the  boat  started  slowly 
out  into  the  mysterious  islanded  waters,  stabbing  with  its 
searchlight  into  the  warm  thick  darkness  and  revealing  with 
that  unearthly  light,  here  and  there,  some  place  of  trees 
bending  to  dip  their  boughs  into  the  water — the  edge  of  one 
of  the  islands  around  and  past  which  they  steered  slowly, 
turning  and  winding  about  until  they  seemed  to  be  exploring 
a  vast  islanded  wilderness.  The  breeze  stirred  faintly  the 
hair  of  their  bared  heads.  The  others  of  the  party  appeared 
to  be  lovers  happily  entranced  with  love  and  with  the  myste 
rious  beauty  of  this  realm  which  it  seemed  could  hardly  exist 
in  the  confines  of  a  mere  park.  No  one  spoke,  except  in 
whispers. 

"Life  ought  to  be  like  this,"  whispered  Rose-Ann,  taking 
his  hand.  "Not  arranged  and  planned!" 

A  little  later,  she  whispered  fiercely :  "Felix,  are  you 
thinking  of  that  damned  play?  Then  stop  it!" 

It  was  true.  Felix  had  been  thinking  of  his  play.  He 
became  annoyed  with  her.  She  wanted  him  to  write  plays, 
to  be  a  personage — and  now,  when  he  tried.  .  .  . 

As  if  in  reply  to  his  thought,  she  bent  and  said  in  his 
ear,  "Felix,  if  you  write  a  conventional  play  like  Hawkins's, 
and  make  a  success  of  it,  I  shall  leave  you!" 

He  was  inwardly  dismayed. 

"I  wonder — "  said  Rose-Ann  aloud,  and  then  stopped,  as 
if  startled  at  hearing  her  voice. 

"Yes?"  said  Felix. 


Duty  229 

"Nothing,"  she  whispered.     "I'll  tell  you  afterward." 

And  afterward,  in  a  cafe  where  they  had  stopped  for  a 
cool  drink  before  going  home  to  bed,  she  told  him  that 
she  did  not  want  him  to  be  successful — that  she  meant  it 
quite  seriously. 

"It  would  spoil  everything,"  she  said. 

"Never  fear,  I  shan't  be  so  successful  as  that,"  he  said 
glumly. 

"But  that's  just  what  I'm  afraid  of — that  you  will  1"  she 
said.  "I  looked  at  your  scenario  the  other  day  when  you 
were  at  the  office;  and  it's — well,  I've  seen  that  play  a 
hundred  times;  it's  what  they  call  sure-fire  stuff." 

She  said  this  reproachfully,  but  Felix  was  elated.  That 
was  exactly  what  he  had  been  trying  to  make  it.  "Do  you 
really  think  so!"  he  asked. 

"I  do,"  she  said.  "And  I  know  that  if  you  keep  on 
long  enough,  you'll  succeed.  But  I  wish  you  wouldn't" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,  Felix,  that  play  isn't  true — not  as  we  see  truth. 
It  makes  people  behave  as  people  think  they  ought  to — 
not  as  we  know  they  feel.  You  deal  in  conventional  emo 
tions  entirely.  The  only  interesting  person  in  the  play  is 
the  wicked  woman — and  you  know  she  isn't  wicked  at  all, 
Felix,  you  only  pretend  to  think  so  to  please  your  audience." 

"You  mean  the  woman  who  tries  to  take  the  other 
woman's  husband  away  from  her  ?  Oh,  I  know — it's  stupid 
stuff,  but—" 

"Well,  then,  why  do  you  do  it?  If  you  want  to  write 
about  a  girl  who's  in  love  with  another  woman's  husband, 
why  don't  you  do  it  honestly?  You  and  I  don't  believe  in 
those  silly  old  notions.  Why  pretend  that  you  think  she 
is  wicked?  Just  to  make  money?  I'd  rather  we  starved 
than  have  you  write  plays  like  that." 

It  was  at  once  an  immense  relief  to  be  told  that  he  need 
not  try  any  longer  to  write  that  stupid  play,  and  a  profound 
humiliation  to  be  scolded  by  his  wife.  He  did  not  know 
whether  to  be  angry  or  ashamed.  His  eyes  filled  with 


230  The  Briary-Bush 

tears,  and  he  reached  across  the  table  and  laid  his  hand  in 
hers  in  silence. 

"What  was  it  you  were  going  to  tell  me  there  in  the 
Park,"  he  said  after  a  while. 

"I  was  thinking  about  'duty,'  "  she  said.  "Your  attitude 
toward  life  reminds  me  of  a  little  story  I  read  the  other 
day — I  think  it  was  in  Anatole  France  ...  a  curious 
little  story.  ...  If  you  want  to  hear  it?" 

"Yes,  tell  me." 


XXXIII.  A  Parable 

I 

FELIX   searched  afterward  through   several   volumes 
of  Anatole  France  for  that  story,  but  he  never  could 
find  it,  and  he  suspected  that  she  had  made  it  up 
herself  ...  or  perhaps  it  was  a  story  her  father  had  told 
her — it  sounded  rather  like  it.  ... 


"It  seems,"  she  smilingly  began,  "that  there  was  a  young 
Roman  nobleman,  in  the  early  Christian  days,  who  was 
rich  and  handsome  and  beloved;  and  he  had  a  slave  who 
was  a  Christian.  And  Julian — I  think  that  was  the  young 
nobleman's  name — used  to  discuss  Christianity  with  this 
slave.  It  seemed  to  him  a  barbarian  superstition,  but  he  had 
heard  of  some  intelligent  people  becoming  converted  to  its 
doctrines,  so  he  wanted  to  know  more  about  it.  The  slave 
explained.  And  Julian  laughed,  saying  that  these  doctrines 
were  even  more  absurd  than  he  had  supposed. 

"But  Julian,  who  was  a  perfect  young  Roman  gentleman, 
always  doing  what  was  expected  of  him  and  what  everybody 
else  did,  became  more  and  more  bored  with  the  life  he  was 
living.  He  continued  to  talk  with  his  slave  about  Christian 
ity,  and  finally  became  converted.  And  he  said,  'I  see  now 
that  this  life  of  mine  is  a  tissue  of  vanities  in  which  there  is 
no  real  joy.  I  will  renounce  my  wealth  and  my  title,  give  up 
my  old  habits,  and  then  receive  baptism  and  begin  a  life  of 
true  Christian  happiness/ 

"  'Good/  said  the  slave.     'I  will  go  and  tell  my  brethren.' 

"Now  Julian  kept  a  stable  and  had  been  fond  of  racing. 
He  had  a  favourite  mare  which  he  used  to  hitch  up  to  a 
small  but  elegant  chariot,  and  drive  very  fast  through  the 
streets  of  Rome,  wearing  a  chaplet  of  flowers.  But  all 

231 


232  The  Briary-Bush 

this  looked  very  silly  to  him  now  and  so  he  went  first  of 
all  to  his  stable,  and  said  to  his  headgroom :  "I  have  wasted 
enough  time  with  these  soulless  brutes.  Sell  them!" 

"The  head-groom  was  thunderstruck.  'But/  he  stam 
mered,  'there  are  the  big  races  next  week !' 

"'What  of  it?'  said  Julian. 

"  'Well/  said  the  head-groom,  'all  your  friends  are  betting 
on  your  mare,  and  they'll  think — ' 

"  'I  don't  care  what  they  think/  said  Julian. 

"  'I've  put  all  the  money  I've  got  in  the  world  on  her 
myself/  said  the  head-groom,  sadly.  I've  been  very  proud 
of  that  filly!' 

"Julian  was  touched.  This  loyalty  deserved  an  explana 
tion  from  him.  But  how  could  he  explain?  This  good- 
hearted  simple  man  would  never  understand.  He  would 
simply  think  his  master  had  gone  crazy,  and  would  hold 
that  against  Christianity.  It  did  not  seem  fair  that 
Christianity  should  get  a  black  eye  through  such  a  well- 
meaning  but  hasty  action  as  this  that  he  had  contemplated. 
He  realized  that  he  must  go  about  the  matter  of  becoming 
a  Christian  in  a  more  practical  way. 

"  'After  all/  he  said,  'there  is  nothing  very  wicked  about 
horse-racing.  I  will  keep  my  horses' — and  he  counter 
manded  his  order  to  the  head-groom — 'and  go  and  give  up 
Leila  instead.''  Leila  was  a  Persian  girl,  and  the  most  beau 
tiful  of  his  three  mistresses.  Once  he  had  given  her  up,  it 
would  be  easier  to  dispense  with  the  others. 

"He  went  to  see  Leila,  and  told  her  about  becoming  a 
Christian.  'Is  it  the  thing  to  do?'  she  asked.  'Then  I 
will  become  one,  too !'  Dear,  sweet,  simple  soul !  He  tried 
to  explain,  but  she  understood  nothing,  until  he  said  that 
it  meant  that  he  would  have  to  part  with  her.  Then  she 
burst  into  tears,  and  cast  herself  at  his  feet,  and  cried  out, 
'Is  it  true,  then,  that  you  no  longer  love  me?' 

"He  told  her  that  he  loved  her  more  than  ever,  but  in  a 
different  way:  now  he  loved  her  soul.  'You  have  a  soul, 
Leila/  he  said,  'an  immortal  soul — and  it  is  high  time  you 
began  to  think  about  saving  it,  too !' 


A  Parable  233 

"  'Stay  with  me/  she  begged,  'and  explain  all  these  things 
to  me.  I  think  if  you  are  kind  to  me  I  can  understand 
you,  and  learn  to  save  my  soul,  whatever  that  means.  But 
do  not  look  at  me  coldly,  for  that  frightens  me/ 

"  'After  all/  he  thought,  'she  has  as  much  a  right  to  save 
her  soul  as  I  have  to  save  mine.  Perhaps  I  had  better 
break  it  to  her  gently.  In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks — ' 
And  so  he  kissed  her  and  stayed  to  explain. 

"It  was  harder  than  he  had  realized  to  become  a  Chris 
tian.  His  other  mistress  was  angry  at  him  when  he  proposed 
to  leave  her,  and  said  that  it  was  because  he  preferred  that 
Persian  hussy  with  her  silly  doll-face!  It  pained  him  to 
have  his  motives  so  misconstrued,  but  why,  after  all,  should 
he  discriminate  against  this  girl?  She,  too,  had  a  soul. 
As  for  the  third  one,  he  put  off  mentioning  the  subject  to 
her;  he  was  discouraged  with  the  results  of  his  previous 
efforts,  and  besides,  he  felt  that  women  did  not  understand 
these  things  very  well. 

"At  least/  he  said,  'I  will  receive  baptism;  and  these 
other  things  will  go  easier  after  that/ 

"But  on  the  day  set  for  the  ceremony,  his  mother  re 
minded  him  that  it  was  the  day  of  the  festival  of  Diana, 
her  favourite  goddess.  It  had  been  his  filial  custom  to 
escort  his  mother  to  the  temple,  and  sprinkle  with  her  a  few 
grains  of  incense  in  the  fire  which  burned  before  the  statue 
of  the  goddess.  He  had  never  believed  in  the  gods  and 
goddesses— no  cultivated  Roman  did— but  it  had  seemed  to 
him  a  harmless  and  pretty  custom.  .  .  .  Now  he  endeav 
oured  to  explain  to  his  mother  why  he  could  not  accompany 
her.  Of  course  the  dear  old  lady  could  not  understand. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  her  child  had  fallen  under  the  influence 
of  godless  men,  and  she  wept  bitterly.  To  have  this  happen 
to  me  in  my  old  age !'  she  wailed. 

"He  could  not  bear  to  see  his  mother  cry  like  that.  And 
it  seemed  to  him  that  there  must  be  some  mistake:  how 
could  this  new  religion  of  kindness  and  gentleness  and  love 
command  him  to  break  his  mother's  heart? 

"He  comforted  her,  and  said  he  would  go  with  her  after 


234  The  Briary-Bush 

all,  and  sent  word  that  the  baptism  was  to  be  postponed  for 
a  while. 

"Julian  pondered  this  situation  in  the  silent  hours  of  the 
night,  when  Leila  was  asleep.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that 
perhaps  he,  too,  was  a  martyr — a  different  kind  of  martyr 
than  any  his  Christian  slave  had  told  him  about,  but  a 
martyr  none  the  less.  Upon  him  lay  the  burden  of  seeming 
to  be  a  mere  pagan  profligate,  sunk  in  idleness  and  debauch 
ery,  while  in  truth  he  was  carrying  out  the  precepts  of 
kindness  and  gentleness  and  love  which  he  had  learned  from 
his  slave.  He  was  a  Christian  after  all — too  much  of  a 
Christian  to  hurt  anybody's  feelings.  And  nobody  would 
ever  understand!  That  was  the  saddest  part  of  all,  and 
he  shed  a  few  tears,  waking  Leila,  who  was  frightened  by 
these  tears,  and  had  to  be  comforted.  .  .  . 

"He  continued  to  live,  in  outward  seeming,  the  ordinary 
life  of  a  young  Roman  profligate,  while  inwardly  his  heart 
was  dedicated  to  the  austere  practices  of  virtue.  He  wished 
that  he  could  go  to  the  desert,  and  wear  sackcloth,  and  go 
hungry,  like  his  more  fortunate  brethren.  But,  no— duty 
compelled  him  to  bear  the  burden  of  meaningless  riches  and 
idleness  and  pleasure.  Eventually,  he  was  appointed  gov 
ernor  of  a  Roman  province,  where  he  distinguished  himself 
in  a  quiet  way  by  the  economy  and  orderliness  of  his  ruler- 
ship,  and  by  a  moderation  of  the  severities  currently  prac 
tised  against  new  sects.  Nevertheless,  strange  to  say,  the 
Christians  of  that  province  hated  him,  and  spread  scandalous 
stories  about  him.  He  bore  all  this  meekly,  but  in  his 
breast  was  a  profound  sadness.  None  of  those  martyrs 
whom  from  his  cushioned  seat  at  the  gladiatorial  games  he 
saw  go,  pale  but  erect  and  proud— rather  spectacularly 
proud,  he  thought,  to  meet  the  lions  (for  after  all,  in  spite 
of  his  moderation,  he  had  to  sacrifice  a  Christian  virgin  or 
,  two  now  and  then  to  satisfy  the  rnob)— none  of  them,  year 
by  year,  would  ever  know  that  he  too  was,  in  his  quiet 
unassuming  way,  also  a  martyr/' 


XXXIV.  Journeys 


AGAIN  Felix  tore  up  his  unfinished  play.     Rose-Ann 
had   shattered  his  philosophy  of  compromise.     But 
still  he  hesitated  to  accept  her  philosophy  of  freedom. 
Throughout  the  summer  he  idled  and  dreamed. 

Late  in  August  he  took  his  vacation.  Part  of  it  they 
were  to  spend  in  paying  their  long-due  visits  to  their  re 
spective  families ;  the  rest  was  to  be  given  to  a  walking  trip. 
They  went  first  to  Springfield. 


Rose-Ann's  father  lived,  under  the  mismanagement  of 
an  unmarried  sister,  a  fussy,  well-meaning  woman,  in  the 
rambling  old  house  which  Rose-Ann  had  described  to  Felix 
—the  house  in  which  she  had  been  born.  It  was  filled 
with  vexatiously  new  furniture,  except  as  to  the  old  man's 
study — a  shabby,  comfortable,  low-ceilinged,  book-lined 
room  at  the  top  of  the  house.  It  was  to  this  room  that 
Rose-Ann  had  once  stolen,  in  the  dead  of  night,  to  get  the 
Dan-Emp  volume  of  the  Encyclopedia,  to  read  about 
dancing. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Prentiss  seemed  more  subdued  in  his  home 
surroundings — a  picturesque  and  mildly  eccentric  clergy 
man,  but  by  no  means  the  disturbing  force  he  had  been 
during  his  brief  visit  to  them  in  Chicago  the  year  before. 
.  .  .  And  Rose-Ann's  brothers  were  not  at  all  the  terrible 
persons  he  had  been  led  to  imagine — interested  only  in 
money-making.  They  were  quite  obviously  proud  of  their 
father;  and  Felix  felt  that  they  were  rather  proud  of  him, 
too — pleased,  at  least,  to  have  a  "writer"  in  .the  family. 
They — or  their  wives — had  severally  subscribed  to  the 

235 


236  The  Briary-Bush 

Chicago  Chronicle  in  order  to  read  Felix's  dramatic  criti 
cisms,  which  they  took  very  seriously,  and  sometimes  clipped 
out  and  saved  for  their  guidance  when  the  plays  of  which 
he  wrote  reached  Springfield.  Felix  had  expected  to  find 
them  alien  and  a  little  hostile ;  on  the  contrary  he  was  rather 
embarrassingly  deferred  to — treated  distinctly  as  a  per 
sonage. 

He  enjoyed  his  brief  visit,  and  could  not  understand  the 
relief  Rose-Ann  showed  when  they  had  bade  her  family 
good-bye  and  were  on  their  way  to  visit  his  own  parents  on 
the  farm  further  down  in  the  state.  It  ought  to  be  easy 
enough,  he  felt,  to  get  along  with  such  people  as  Rose- Ann's 
relatives.  It  was  the  thought  of  seeing  his  own  parents 
that  filled  him  with  uneasiness. 

"But,  Felix,"  she  explained  impatiently,  "it's  because  they 
are  my  relatives.  I  feel  their  criticism  all  the  time." 

icl  don't  think  they  criticize  you  any  more,"  he  said. 
"You've  had  a  struggle  with  them — and  you've  won. 
They've  accepted  the  situation  now.  I  think  they've  even 
accepted  me." 

"You're  not  their  property,  and  I  am,"  she  said.  "But 
it  isn't  my  brothers  that  count  so  much  any  more — we 
look  prosperous,  and  that's  about  as  far  as  they  can  judge 
us.  It's  my  father — I  feel  as  though  he  were  seeing  right 
through  me  ...  and  smiling." 

"Smiling  at  what?" 

"At — my  pretences.  I  can't  explain  very  well,  but  I  feel 
as  though  I  were  a — a  fake,  a  fraud,  when  I'm  with  him." 

"But  what  about?" 

"I  don't  know,  exactly.  But  he  stirs  up  some  childish 
confusion  in  me.  ...  I  think  I  have  all  my  life  been  trying 
to  live  up  to  my  father's  expectations — not  of  me,  for  I 
don't  think  he  expects  anything  of  me — but  of  womankind 
...  if  that  seems  to  you  to  make  sense.  It's  as  if  I 
were  trying  to  prove  to  him  that  women  could  be — I  don't 
know  what,  but  perhaps  .  .  .  different  from  my  mother. 
For  instance,  I  want  to  be  a  certain  kind  of  wife  to  you, 
Felix — not  possessive,  not  interfering,  and  all  that.  I  go 


Journeys  237 

along  thinking  I  am  that  kind  of  wife — and  then  I  see 
him  looking  at  me  and  smiling,  and  I  have  the  feeling 
that  it  isn't  true  .  .  .  that  I'm  just  Woman  all  over  again, 
the  only  kind  of  woman  he  knows,  the  kind  he  hates.  Yes, 
I  feel  that  I  am  just  that  kind — and  I  wonder  if  there  is 
any  other  kind — and  I  get  desperate  and  want  to  prove 
there  is.  I  couldn't  have  stood  it  there  much  longer. 
I  should  have  done  some  crazy  thing !  .  .  .  I  don't  suppose 
you  can  understand — you  aren't  a  girl!" 

3 

He  couldn't  understand;  though  it  was  true  that  as  the 
train  carried  them  nearer  and  nearer  to  his  own  parents,  he 
became  more  and  more  uncomfortable.  .  .  .  The  situation 
was  different  enough;  Rose- Ann  had  felt  that  their  pros 
perous  air  secured  them  against  family  criticism;  Felix  felt 
that  same  appearance  as  a  reproach  to  his  conscience.  .  .  . 

"I've  felt  for  years,"  he  said,  "that  I  was  an  ungrateful 
child.  I  hate  to  go  there  to  exhibit  my  prosperity  to  them. 
Of  course,  it  isn't  so  tremendous  a  prosperity — but  it's 
enough  to  make  me  feel  ashamed.  You  know  how  hard  it 
is  for  me  to  write  to  my  mother;  and  I  hardly  ever  can 
bring  myself  to  write  except  when  I  can  send  her  a  little 
money — as  if,  yes,  as  if  in  penance  for  my  desertion  of  her!" 

"Would  you  like  to  have  her  live  with  us?" 

"No — I  wouldn't.  I  owe  her  too  much,  I  couldn't  bear 
to  be  always  reminded  of  the  debt.  It's  a  debt  that's  too 
huge — I  never  can  pay  it,  and  I  try  to  forget  it." 

"The  thought  that  she  loves  you  more  than  you  love  her 
— is  that  what  makes  you  feel  ungrateful?" 

"I  suppose  so.     I  do  love  her — 

"Of  course  you  do,  Felix!" 

"More  than  I  want  to,  perhaps !  I  can't  forget  her,  and 
I  resent  that.  I  want  to  get  away  from  her.  .  .  .  She  petted 
and  spoiled  me  when  I  was  a  child.  She  wanted  to  keep 
me  a  child  always.  She  kept  me  in  skirts,  she  kept  me 
wearing  long  curls — she  made  a  baby  of  me.  My  whole 
life  is  in  a  sense  trying  to  get  away  from  that.  .  .  .  You'll 


238  The  Briary-Bush 

see — she'll  wait  on  me,  'hand  and  foot/  as  they  say — try 
to  make  me  her  baby  again.  She'll  anticipate  my  wishes, 
and  jump  up  from  the  table  to  get  something  for  me,  and 
follow  me  about  with  her  eyes — and  I'll  get  to  feeling  help 
less,  and  then  furious — and  then  I'll  say  something  cross 
to  her,  and  be  ashamed  of  myself.  .  .  .  Oh,  well!" 

"So  you  have  queer  feelings  about  your  parents,  too!" 

The  visit  did  not  justify  all  these  forebodings.  .  .  .  The 
house  was  the  same  as  Felix  had  remembered  it,  only 
smaller ;  the  same  boxes  of  moss-roses  grew  beside  the  door, 
and  peacocks  as  of  old  screamed  in  the  yard;  there  was  a 
little  porch,  with  a  wild-cucumber  vine  trained  up  to  screen 
out  the  light,  and  on  that  porch  his  father  and  mother  sat, 
the  Sunday  morning  of  their  arrival,  in  rocking-chairs,  his 
mother  reading  a  paper  through  spectacles  that  sat  slightly 
askew,  his  father  smoking  a  fat  pipe.  .  .  .  They  were  not 
so  old  as  he  had  in  several  years  of  absence  begun  to  pic 
ture  them ;  his  father's  plump  little  body  looked  surprisingly 
sturdy,  and  there  was  a  youthful  humour  in  his  mother's 
smile  as  she  sat  talking,  unaware  of  her  son's  approach.  .  .  . 

The  first  greetings  over,  Felix's  two  aunts  appeared 
from  within  the  house — really  old  people  these,  Felix 
thought,  but  still  wearing  their  air  of  aggressive  self- 
dependence.  They  had  looked  after  their  little  farm  for  so 
many  years,  without  any  masculine  assistance  except  from 
an  occasional  hired  man,  that  they  resented,  somewhat  Felix 
thought,  his  father's  presence  there,  as  a  slur  on  their  own 
capacity  for  taking  care  of  themselves.  They  treated  him 
a  little  scornfully,  as  if,  being  a  man,  he  were  a  rather  help 
less  person,  and  more  of  a  nuisance  than  a  help.  He  un 
derstood  this,  and  smiled  genially  and  tolerantly  at  their  re 
marks,  he  being  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  it  took  a  man 
to  run  things  and  that  the  real  boss  of  this  establishment 
was  himself.  .  .  .  Just  before  they  were  seated  at  Sunday 
dinner,  he  led  Felix  to  a  cupboard,  and  smilingly  produced 
a  bottle  of  whiskey.  "Have  a  little  something  to  improve 
your  appetite?"  he  asked. 

Felix  poured  himself  a  drink,  and  his  father  did  the  same, 


Journeys  239 

carefully  raising  the  tumbler  so  as  to  let  the  light  shine 
through  the  golden  liquid,  and  smacking  his  lips  after  he 
had  poured  it  down  his  throat — while  Felix's  two  aunts 
stonily  ignored  this  masculine  nonsense,  and  his  mother 
looked  on  with  an  air  of  mild  disapproval. 

At  dinner  they  talked  about  the  crops;  his  father  was 
happy  in  being  a  farmer  again;  happy,  after  years  of 
increasing  uselessness  in  town  while  his  children  were 
growing  up,  in  being  master  of  a  situation,  the  real  head  of 
a  household;  happy,  and  boyishly  active,  despite  his  spells 
of  rheumatism,  of  which  he  also  discoursed  seriously  and 
uncomplainingly.  He  had  had  a  bad  spell  this  last  winter- 
in  fact  they  had  all  been  bothered  with  it — but  they  had 
found  a  liniment  which  seemed  to  do  some  good.  "  Pretty 
powerful  stuff!"  he  said.  "I  sometimes  wondered  which 
was  the  worst,  that  liniment  or  the  rheumatism — but  it 
appeared  to  do  the  work !" 

With  the  dessert  they  came  to  the  fortunes  of  Felix— 
briefly  alluded  to  before,  but  saved  to  the  last  for  thorough 
consideration.  They  wanted  to  know  all  about  Felix's  job, 
or  rather  all  about  how  important  a  personage  he  had 
become.  Felix's  shame  in  his  good  fortune  gradually  dis 
appeared  as  he  realized  how  immensely  proud  they  all  were 
of  him — how  they  hugged  his  success  to  their  hearts  and 
enjoyed  it.  It  was  as  though  his  good  fortune  were  their 
own! 

4 

Rose- Ann  liked  them  immensely,  and  that  night  reproached 
Felix  for  never  having  told  her  what  lovely  people  they 
were.  She  entered  into  their  domestic  life,  busied  herself 
in  the  kitchen,  and  displayed  qualities  as  a  cook  which  he 
had  never,  in  their  studio-life,  realized  that  she  possessed. 
Their  little  studio-dinners  had  been  masterpieces  in  their 
way.  But  to  see  Rose-Ann  coming  in  flushed  and  trium 
phant  from  the  kitchen  with  one  dish  after  another  of  an 
old-fashioned  country  dinner  in  her  hands  was  a  new  expe 
rience. 


240  The  Briary-Bush 

Rose-Ann  had  smoked  surreptitiously  during  her  visit  to 
her  own  home,  merely  wishing  not  to  offend  her  aunt  by 
any  ostentatious  indulgence  of  what  that  good  lady  regarded 
as  a  reprehensible  practice;  but  here  she  did  not  smoke  at 
all,  even  in  their  room  at  night.  She  did  not  want  to  do 
anything  that  Felix's  folks  would  not  like,  and  was  seriously 
concerned  to  secure  their  approval.  .  .  .  And  she  secured 
it — for  who  could  resist  Rose-Ann  in  her  most  buoyant 
mood? 

The  visit  had  not  been  as  disturbing  as  he  had  expected ; 
and  yet  he  was  glad  to  go. 

"Felix,"  said  Rose-Ann,  as  they  took  the  train  back 
to  Chicago,  "I  think  I  understand  why  we  feel  this  way. 
It's  because  all  our  lives — and  this  is  the  truth — we've 
scorned  the  older  generation.  And  we  are  ashamed,  coming 
back  to  face  them,  because  we've  nothing  better — really — to 
show  for  our  lives  than  they  have." 

"I  wonder?"  he  said. 

"But  we  can  be  happy  in  a  way  they  knew  nothing  about, 
Felix.  We  can.  And  we  shall!" 

5 

Then  came  their  real  vacation — a  week's  walking  trip 
in  Wisconsin. 

The  night-boat  carried  them  from  Chicago  to  Milwaukee ; 
and  from  thence,  early  in  the  morning,  dressed  now  in  their 
oldest  clothes,  and  with  packs  on  their  backs,  they  set  out 
happily  on  foot.  They  stopped  by  the  roadside  to  make 
themselves  a  breakfast  of  eggs  and  bacon,  cooked  in  the 
ten-cent  frying  pan  that  dangled  from  one  corner  of  Felix's 
pack;  pausing  again  at  mid-day  for  a  luncheon  of  black 
berries  and  raspberries  gathered  in  some  bramble-patch.  At 
night  they  reached,  in  a  drizzling  rain  that  had  accompanied 
them  for  the  last  hour  of  their  journey,  a  town  with  an 
ugly  little  hotel,  where  they  could  at  least  dry  their  clothes, 
eat  a  poor  dinner  with  a  good  appetite,  and  sleep,  dog-tired 
and  happy,  from  ten  o'clock  till  dawn. 

And  thus  onward,  in  the  general  direction  of  "the  dells." 


Journeys  241 

Most  of  the  time  they  did  not  know  just  where  they  were 
going  next,  nor  care;  they  took  the  most  promising  road. 

The  "dells"  at  last — steep  ravines,  miniature  canyons,  up 
which  they  went  in  the  guide's  leaky  little  gasoline  launch, 
landing  to  explore  the  quaint  caverns  in  the  rocks,  dim- 
lighted  by  the  daylight  that  sifted  through  the  openings 
above.  .  .  .  And  so  back,  by  new  roads,  glad  they  had  no 
map  to  take  the  surprise  out  of  their  journey. 

Felix  had  never  realized  how  much  robust  strength  and 
endurance  Rose-Ann  had  until  they  tramped  those  Wisconsin 
roads.  They  were  not  above  taking  a  lift  in  some  farmer's 
wagon  or  passing  automobile,  if  it  promised  to  get  them  to 
a  town  with  a  hotel  before  nightfall;  but,  having  come  in 
sight  of  the  town,  if  the  night  promised  to  be  clear,  they 
hunted  up  some  promising  spot  and  encamped  there:  for 
what  was  the  use  of  carrying  two  heavy  woollen  blankets, 
if  they  were  not  going  to  sleep  out  under  the  stars  by  a 
camp-fire  ? 

Felix's  old  corduroys,  splashed  with  kalsomine  in  all 
colours,  caused  him  to  be  taken  for  an  "artist."  At  first 
this  displeased  him — but  he  soon  discovered  that  all  the 
world  envies  the  artist,  loves  him,  and  wishes  to  take  care 
of  him.  Old  farmers,  burly  truck-drivers,  delivery-boys, 
tourists,  wanted  to  give  them  a  lift,  and  offered  them  their 
best  counsel  as  to  where  to  go  next.  Hotel-keepers,  grocers 
at  whose  shops  they  replenished  their  food  supplies,  and 
farmers'"  wives  at  houses  where  they  stopped  till  a  shower 
passed  over,  talked  to  them  with  friendly  eagerness.  Felix 
perceived  that  a  pair  of  foot-loose  vagabonds  with  enough 
money  in  their  pockets  to  pay  for  their  bread  and  eggs 
and  bacon,  are  fortunate  beings,  the  world's  darlings,  beamed 
on  and  approved  by  those  who  sleep  under  roofs  and  hold 
steady  jobs  and  stay  day  after  day  in  the  same  place- 
approved  because  they  are  living  life  as  all  men  and  women 
know  it  should  be  lived :  if  everybody  cannot  live  that  way 
themselves,  they  are  glad  to  see  somebody  else  who  can! 

As  they  tramped,  Felix's  mind  went  back  to  the  songs 
of  vagabondia  which  he  used  to  cherish,  and  then  had 


242  The  Briary-Bush 

rejected  as  romantic  and  foolish;  and  at  night,  beside  their 
dying  camp-fire,  when  Rose- Ann  demanded  poetry  before 
she  went  to  sleep,  he  would  say  for  her  the  little  fragments 
that  he  remembered: 

"Down  the  world  with  Mama, 
That's  the  life  for  me! 
Wandering  with  the  wandering  rain 
It's  unboundaried  domain.  .  .  . 

"Mm — I  forget.     Anyway — 

".  .  .  .  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these — 
A  crimson  touch  on  the  hard-wood  trees.  .  .  . 

A  vagrant's  morning,  wide  and  blue, 

In  early  fall,  when  the  wind  walks,  too.  .  .  . 

A  shadowy  highway,  cool  and  brown, 

Alluring  up  and  enticing  down.  .  .  . 

A  scrap  of  gossip  at  the  ferry, 

And  a  comrade  neither  glum  nor  merry, 

Asking  nothing,  revealing  naught, 

But  minting  his  words  from  a  fund  of  thought.  .  .  . 

A  keeper  of  silence  eloquent.  .  .  . 

"Mm.  .  .  . 

"With  only  another  mile  to  wend, 

And  two  brown  arms  at  the  journey'  s  end.  .  .  . 

"I  forget  the  rest  of  it." 

"You  are  forgetting  everything  that's  important!"  Rose- 
Ann  complained.  "I'll  bet  you  know  by  heart  Professor 
Humptydink's  law  of  dramatic  crisis." 

"No — I've  stopped  that  foolishness,  thanks  to  you.  If 
I  ever  write  anything,  it  will  be  just  what  I  want  to  write — 
and  the  devil  take  the  Great  American  Public!" 

"No,  Felix — that's  wrong,  too.  It's  what  one  really  wants 
to  say  that  other  people  really  like — I'm  sure  of  it.  Can't 
you  trust  yourself?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  the  pale  moon 
through  a  tangle  of  leafy  branches.  "Somehow  I  have  the 
notion  that  anything  I  want  to  do  will  be  foolish.  ...  I 


Journeys  243 

used  to  trust  in  myself.  I  used  to  believe  this  sort  of  thing: 
—it's  by  Bliss  Carman,  the  man  that  wrote  the  vagabond 
poems. — 

"Keep  thou,  by  some  large  instinct, 
Unwasted,  fair  and  whole, 
The  innocence  of  nature, 
The  ardor  of  the  soul — 

"And  through  the  realms  of  being 
Thou  art  at  liberty 
To  pass,  enjoy,  and  linger, 
Inviolate,  and  free! 

"And  don't  you  believe  that  now,  Felix?" 

"That  I  can  do  as  I  please,  if— 

"If  it's  what  you  really  please  to  do!  Yes,  Felix.  You 
can  have  any  happiness  you  ever  want,  if  you  really  want 
it — not  cynically,  nor  because  other  people  seem  to  have  it, 
but  because  it  belongs  to  you.  I  believe  that.  I  don't 
intend  ever  to  keep  from  doing  anything  I  want  to  do.  And 
I  shan't  be  ashamed  of  myself,  either.  Do  you  remember 
the  girl-goldsmith  I  told  you  about,  in  the  story?" 

"I  remember  her  very  well,"  said  Felix.  "I  know  one 
of  her  speeches  almost  by  heart.  'The  only  sins  are  telling 
lies,  and  not  keeping  one's  body  clean,  and  being  careless 
about  one's  work — ugly  things.  Beautiful  things — the  things 
people  sometimes  call  sins — aren't  sins  at  all.  Being  in  love 
isn't  ever  a  sin.' 5: 

"Yes,"  said  Rose-Ann  dreamily.  "I  want  us  to  be  like 
that — not  afraid  of  life,  or  of  any  of  the  beautiful  things 
life  brings  us." 

Well  ...  yes  ...  it  sounded  simple  enough.  To  live 
life  beautifully,  and  not  be  afraid!  He  had  believed  in 
that  once.  But  now — or  had  he  really  ceased  to  believe  it 
possible  ?  At  this  moment,  in  the  moonlight,  it  did  not  seem 
so  absurd.  .  .  . 

"Good  night,   Felix." 

"Good  night,  Rose-Ann." 


XXXV.  Civilization 


THEY   came   back   refreshed   to   civilization — to    the 
studio,  to  a  whirl  of  exciting  parties,  to  books  and 
ideas,  to  the  problems  of  ambition,  to  the  Chronicle 
office    and    a    theatrical    season    just   opening    with    hectic 
announcements  of  "Alias  Jimmy  Valentine,"  "The  Case  of 
Becky,"  "The  Pink  Lady"  and  "The  Chocolate  Soldier.".  .  . 

Hawkins  was  still  in  New  York,  assisting  in  the  selection 
of  a  cast  for  his  play — which  to  Felix's  complete  astonish 
ment  (for  Hawkins  had  not  confided  anything  to  him  as  to 
its  theme  or  character)  was  announced  as  "Tootsie-Wootsie." 
A  farce! — with,  as  it  further  appeared,  honeymoon  couples 
and  wrong  bedrooms.  .  .  .  What?  Hawkins,  the  serious 
Hawkins,  who  had  so  often  called  upon  American  drama 
to  do  its  duty  and  deal  with  "the  problems  of  the  time" — 
he  the  author  of  a  play  called  "Tootsie-Wootsie"  ? 

The  news  of  Hawkins's  play  brought  up  in  Felix's  mind 
a  practical  question  which  so  far  he  had  refused  to  consider. 
It  had  been  exciting  enough  to  be  the  acting  dramatic  critic 
of  the  Chronicle;  he  had  not  wanted  to  look  ahead  any 
further.  But  when  one  day  at  lunch  he  ran  into  Jennison 
("the  dean  of  the  critical  fraternity"),  Jennison  asked  him, 
"Are  you  going  to  do  the  plays  for  the  Chronicle?"  "Yes, 
while  Hawkins  is  away,"  Felix  told  him.  "Does  Hawkins 
know  it  ?"  "Yes— he  asked  me  to."  "Well,"  said  Jennison, 
smiling,  "then  he's  a  damn  fool !"  That  was  old  Jennison's 
way  of  paying  him  an  extravagant  compliment.  It  was  in 
its  way  an  accolade.  It  was  an  initiation,  by  the  grand  past 
master,  into  the  "critical  fraternity."  And  now  Felix  felt 
obliged  to  consider  the  question  of  Hawkins  and  Hawkins's 
play  in  its  bearing  upon  his  own  career. 

244 


Civilization  245 

If  Hawkins's  play  failed — and  most  plays  did  fail — 
Hawkins  wcfild  return  and  resume  his  post  on  the  Chronicle. 
In  that  event,  Felix  would  be  relegated  to  doing  the  odd  jobs 
that  Hawkins  did  not  want  to  do.  He  might  even  be  put 
back  to  regular  reporting.  After  all,  the  present  arrange 
ment  merely  provided  for  a  dramatic  critic  in  Hawkins's 
absence;  it  was  not  likely  they  would  want  two  men 
continuously  on  the  job.  They  had  given  Felix  another 
raise  that  fall;  and  when  Hawkins  came  back,  he  would 
have  to  earn  his  salary  doing  regular  reporter's  work  again, 
doubtless — if  he  could  earn  it  that  way.  It  was  rather  a 
dismal  prospect.  .  .  .  Felix  hoped  fervently  that  the  serious- 
minded  Hawkins  would  somehow,  improbably,  turn  out  a 
success  as  a  farceur. 

But  if  it  was  a  success,  and  Hawkins  resigned  his  position, 
how  could  Felix  know  he  would  get  it?  After  all,  he  was 
only  twenty-three  years  old.  And  though  by  a  fluke  he 
was  actually  being  for  a  while  the  dramatic  critic  of  a  great 
Chicago  newspaper,  the  idea  that  he  should  retain  this 
position  and  be  confirmed  in  its  title  was  incredible.  He 
wished  that  he  were  not  so  fatally  young.  .  .  . 

Well — he  could  only  wait  and  see  what  happened. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  he  began  wearing  a  moustache— 
a  short,  well-defined  moustache,  aloof  from  the  upper  lip, 
trim  and  straight.  Nothing  boyish,  certainly  about  that 
moustache ! 


Felix  and  Rose- Ann  had  come  back  to  Chicago  eager  to  see 
Clive  Bangs  again.  They  had  been  away  just  long  enough 
to  discover,  in  apparently  all  human  beings  except  them 
selves,  a  fundamental  lack  of  interest  in  all  the  jdeas 
which  most  occupied  their  minds.  Talk,  with  people  in 
general,  was  limited  to  an  exchange  of  views,  if  not  on  the 
weather,  at  least  on  things  equally  obvious.  They  felt  the 
need  for  talk,  and  so  did  Clive;  and  all  at  once,  after  what 
now  seemed  to  them  these  months  of  merely  casual  friend 
ship,  they  became  inseparable.  The  three  of  them  lunched 


246  The  Briary-Bush 

together  daily  at  a  corner  table  in  a  little  Hungarian 
restaurant  where  they  found  what  they  considered  the  best 
food  in  Chicago — a  fond  trio,  laughing,  talking  excitedly, 
arguing  with  the  mingled  gravity  and  extravagance  of 
youth,  sometimes  rehearsing  passionately  in  private  the 
opinions  which  they  would  state  tomorrow  somewhat  more 
soberly  in  print,  and  again  discussing  each  other's  characters 
with  ironic  humour — perpetually  criticizing  and  taking 
delight  in  each  other's  criticism  of  life. 


XXXVI.  "We  Needs  Must  Know  That 
in  the  Days  to  Come 


THEY  had  come  back  to  civilization.  But— unwit 
tingly,  at  first — into  this  life  of  talk,  of  ideas,  of 
theory,  of  vague  ambition  and  of  self-congratulatory 
superiority  to  the  mere  plain  facts  of  life,  they  brought  some 
what  more  than  a  memory  of  their  vagabond  adventuring. 
In  their  brief  and  joyous  return  to  nature  they  had  surren 
dered  themselves  to  its  purposes  more  deeply  than  they  had 
been  aware.  But  presently  Rose-Ann  announced  that  she 
would  have  to  visit  the  doctor  of  whom  Dorothy  Sheridan 
had  once  told  her.  Rose-Ann  did  not  say  that  she  was  with 
child— that  phrase  was  never  used  between  them  in  their  few 
discussions  of  the  incident.  For  that  phrase  would  have 
implied  that  she  intended  to  bear  a  child.  It  was  discussed 
rather  as  an  accident,  an  annoying  but  not  serious  interrup 
tion  to  their  plans.  Rose-Ann  took  the  matter,  not  lightly, 
but  in  a  soberly  practical  spirit.  And  so  convincing  was  her 
tone  that  it  did  not  occur  to  Felix  to  question  the  sincerity  of 
her  apparent  attitude. 

Secretly  he  was  troubled.  In  spite  of  Rose-Ann's 
confidence,  he  distressed  himself  with  what  appeared  to  be 
needless  forebodings.  It  seemed  to  be  true  that  real  life 
was,  in  this  matter  as  in  others,  different  from  fiction.  In  a 
story,  this  would  have  been  a  desperate  situation;  but  in 
actual  fact  it  appeared  to  have  no  such  gravity.  He  hoped 
that  was  indeed  the  truth ;  and,  afterward,  it  appeared  that 
she  had  been  right.  ...  He  wondered  why  he  had  been  so 
absurd  about  it! 

She  would  never  know  how  absurd.  ...  He  would  never 

247 


248  The  Briary-Bush 

tell  her  how,  one  night,  walking  alone  along  a  dark  stretch 
of  lake  shore,  his  courage  had  failed  him  utterly;  how  all 
the  terrible  things  of  which  he  had  ever  heard  had  rushed 
into  his  mind,  filling  and  flooding  it  with  a  kind  of  nameless 
remorse,  until  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  man,  and  had  become 
a  mere  terrified  child — and  how  in  the  influence  of  that 
guilty  terror  he  had  sunk  on  his  knees  in  the  wet  sand, 
praying  to  a  God  he  did  not  believe  in,  whispering  like  a 
child  to  a  kind  Father :  "God,  don't  let  anything  happen  to 
her!"  He  had  not  thought  of  her  then  as  a  free  woman 
acting  wisely  in  her  own  right — no,  but  only  as  a  helpless 
and  lovely  girl,  his  beloved,  given  him  to  cherish  and  protect, 
whom  he  had  let  go  down  to  the  very  gates  of  death — in 
vain!  Not  in  the  terrible  triumph  of  creation,  but  mean- 
inglessly.  .  .  .  And  he  prayed:  "Give  me  back  Rose- 
Ann!".  .  . 

No,  he  would  never  tell  her  what  a  fool  he  had  been. 


And  he  would  never  tell  her — for  he  had  safely  forgotten 
now — the  moment  when,  knowing  that  their  lives  could  go 
on  now  as  before,  they  had  walked  again  in  the  Park  under 
great  trees  that  lifted  their  shivering  glooms  to  the  sky. 
Through  the  bushes  had  come  the  gleam  of  motor-cars  that 
glided  swiftly  down  the  avenue.  "You  were  a  dear  to 
worry,"she  had  said.  "But  you  needn't  any  more.  Every 
thing's  quite  all  right  now." 

He  had  looked  at  her,  cut  through  with  a  strange  unreal 
pain,  his  whole  mind  quivering:  Forces  that  he  did  not 
understand  were  hurling  themselves  on  his  heart,  crushing 
and  stunning  it.  He  breathed  with  difficulty.  He  looked 
away  from  her.  He  could  not  speak. 

But  one  forgets  things  like  that.  It  would  not  be  pleasant 
to  remember  them.  Nor  is  it  hard  to  forget  unpleasant 
things  in  the  midst  of  civilization,  with  its  friendships, 
parties,  talk,  books  and  theories. 

So,  looking  at  life  realistically,  Felix  felt  that  he  and 
Rose- Ann  were  very  fortunate,  after  all. 


XXXVII.  Symbols 


ROSE-ANN  had  become  restless  again.  Once  more 
she  threatened  to  go  out  and  get  a  job.  Books  no 
longer  contented  her;  and  if  she  had  secretly 
cherished,  as  Felix  had  thought,  some  dreams  of  writing, 
they  had  vanished,  like  her  notebook,  which  was  no  more  to 
be  seen.  They  gave  wild  parties,  extended  the  number  of 
their  friends,  and  went  to  dinner-parties,  where  Rose-Ann 
shone  as  always,  and  even  Felix  began  to  be  able  to  take 
care  of  himself.  She  went  to  the  theatre  with  Felix  and 
took  down  his  criticizms  on  her  typewriter  from  dictation, 
as  she  had  a  year  ago.  But  these  activities  did  not  quite 
content  her  volatile  spirit. 

Her  restlessness  expressed  itself,  delightfully  enough,  in 
a  resumption  of  the  endless  midnight  talks  which  had  marked 
the  first  period  of  their  married  intimacy.  Their  daylight 
hours  together  now  seemed  never  to  suffice  them  for  talking. 
Those  hours  were  too  filled  up  with  work,  and  play,  and 
friends.  During  the  day  a  thousand  ideas,  observations, 
comments,  stories,  had  been  stored  away  by  each  for  the 
other's  benefit.  A  glance  at  dinner  had  meant:  "Did  you 
see  that?  Yes — we'll  talk  about  it  tonight."  In  these 
gatherings,  however  friendly  and  outspoken,  something  was 
always  left  unsaid,  reserved  especially  for  each  other.  The 
heart  of  every  occasion  was  in  its  midnight  aftermath,  in 
the  long  wakeful  hours  in  bed,  remembering,  criticizing, 
laughing,  talking,  talking.  .  .  .  Marriage  had  come  to  mean 
above  all  else  the  peculiar  magic  of  that  intimacy.  Some 
times  her  voice  would  come  mysteriously  out  of  the  dark 
at  his  side,  and  again  the  moonlight  would  creep  in  over 
the  roofs  and  tease  the  scene  with  its  glamour.  Their 

249 


250  The  Briary-Bush 

beds,  in  summer  two  little  oases  of  coolness  in  the  sultry 
night,  became  in  winter  warm-coverleted  citadels  against 
the  cold — two  little  friendly  islands,  with  two  voices  floating 
pleasantly  back  and  forth.  "Light  me  another  cigarette," 
Rose-Ann  would  say  sleepily.  Tired,  but  kept  awake  by  all 
they  had  to  tell  each  other,  the  mere  thoughts  and  incidents 
of  the  day  made  precious  by  this  re-living  of  them  together, 
they  lay  and  talked  out  their  hearts. 

2 

"Felix  strikes  me  as  rather  paintable.  Could  you  spare 
him  a  few  afternoons  for  a  sitting  now  and  then?  I  mean, 
some  time  this  winter?  I'm  getting  interested  in  doing 
portraits  again." 

'Td  love  to  have  you !" 

Dorothy  Sheridan  had  come  back  from  her  fishing  village, 
and  a  little  trip  abroad  to  boot,  and  she  and  the  Fays  were 
dining  in  a  little  restaurant  to  which  she  had  taken  them— 
not  very  far  from  their  studio,  a  little  Italian  place 
frequented  by  artists,  where  the  food  was  good  and  the 
prices  low.  The  men  one  saw  there  wore  soft  collars,  like 
Felix's  own,  sometimes  turned  up  to  flare  about  the  chin, 
sometimes  open  at  the  neck ;  one  of  the  girls  at  the  tables 
wore  a  Russian  smock,  like  Dorothy  Sheridan,  and  all  of 
them  seemed,  like  her,  comfortably  uncorseted.  They  all 
seemed  to  know  each  other,  and  each  new  person  who 
came  greeted  the  whole  roomful.  It  was  a  friendly  place. 

Felix  was  rather  amused  at  having  his  afternoons  asked 
for  and  given  away  without  his  being  consulted.  But  he  was 
flattered  by  the  invitation.  He  had  never  been  painted,  and 
he  considered  it  a  distinction. 

"It  will  be  a  bore,"  Dorothy  warned  him.  "You'll  get 
awfully  tired  of  it  before  I'm  through.  But  I'll  do  you  in 
half  a  dozen  sittings,  I  promise  you,  or  give  it  up.  Give  him 
a  cup  of  coffee,  before  he  comes.  I  don't  talk  to  my 
subjects,  and  they  are  likely  to  fall  asleep !" 

They  had  been  to  Dorothy  Sheridan's  studio  that  after 
noon,  and  looked  at  her  paintings  and  sketches.  The  paint- 


Symbols  25 1 

ings  were,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  in  a  vivid,  splashing 
style  that  Felix  liked.  "I've  changed  my  style  since  going 
to  Paris,"  she  said.  "These  things  are  what  they  call  over 
there  Post-Impressionist.  I'll  do  you  in  my  best  Cezanne- 
Matisse  manner,  Felix,  with  some  variations  all  my  own. 
You  won't  know  yourself !" 

Rose-Ann  had  been  most  impressed  by  some  of  Dorothy's 
old  sketches,  particularly  a  series  of  lovely  nudes  done  in 
pencil  with  a  hard,  vibrant  line.  Dorothy  picked  one  of 
them  out  and  gave  it  to  Rose-Ann.  ''Here's  one  that  looks 
like  you,"  she  said,  appraising  Rose-Ann's  figure  with  a 
judicious  eye.  "You  can  use  it  for  a  book-plate  if  you  like." 

It  was  like  Rose-Ann,  Felix  thought,  when  she  pinned  it 
on  the  wall  that  night — it  had  the  same  firm  and  delicate 
contours,  the  same  sweet  livingness  of  a  body  that  is  made 
for  movement,  for  action,  for  intense  and  poignant  use. 
The  figure  in  the  drawing  was  poised  in  the  hesitant  instant 
before  flight,  with  head  turned  to  look  backward,  and  the 
whole  body  ready  at  the  next  moment  either  to  relapse 
again  into  reassured  repose  or  to  put  all  its  force  into  some 
wild  dash  for  freedom.  And  somehow  that  too  reminded 
him  of  Rose-Ann — of  Rose-Ann's  soul. 

Rose-Ann  was  looking  at  the  picture  with  eyes  in  which 
some  purpose  fulminated  darkly. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  he  asked. 

"That  I  shall  never  wear  corsets  again  !  It's  really  absurd, 
isn't  it?  To  imprison  one's  body  in  such  a  thing  as 
that.  ...  I'm  going  to  burn  mine  up — now!"  And  pres 
ently,  in  her  chemise  and  stockings,  she  solemnly  knelt  before 
the  Franklin  stove  and  laid  the  offending  article  upon  the 
live  coals. 

"The  last  of  my  conventions !"  she  said,  as  if  to  herself. 

And  then,  as  it  commenced  to  smoulder,  and  an  acrid 
odour  of  burnt  rubber  emerged,  she  wrinkled  her  nostrils 
and  put  her  thumb  and  finger  to  them.  "It  thmells  bad!" 
she  said.  And  reflectively :  "I  suppose  conventions  always 
do,  at  the  end.  .  .  .  Well,  it's  gone  now,  and  my  body  is 
free. — Gone  forever,  leaving  nothing  but  a  ...  faint  un- 


252  The  Briary-Bush 

pleasant  odour ,  shall  I  say  ? — behind.  .  .  .  Felix — would  you 
mind  if  I  cut  off  my  hair?" 

"Cutoff—!" 

"Short,  you  know.  Like  Dorothy  Sheridan's.  I've  al 
ways  wanted  to.  And  I  never  quite  had  the  nerve.  Living 
here,  it  seems  only  natural.  You  wouldn't  mind?" 

She  loosened  her  hair  and  it  fell  about  her  shoulders, 
like  a  flame.  "I  think  it  would  curl  if  it  were  cut.  It  did 
when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"We've  no  scissors,"  said  Felix,  practically — deferring  in 
his  own  mind  the  question  of  whether  he  would  like  her 
hair  cut  short  or  not.  He  did  not  know.  It  would  look 
well — there  was  no  doubt  at  all  of  that.  He  had  always 
wondered  at  the  foolish  vanity  of  women,  in  putting  up 
with  the  inconvenience  of  long  hair.  He  had  felt  that  long 
hair  was  in  some  way  a  badge  of  woman's  dependence  on 
man,  a  symbol  of  her  failure  to  achieve  freedom  for  her 
self.  And  yet  .  .  .  when  it  came  to  Rose- Ann's  hair — 

Rose- Ann  read  his  face  as  a  wife  can.  "No,  I  suppose 
not,"  she  said,  and  sighed.  "No  scissors!  Well,  there's 
always  something  to  prevent  one  from  being  rash.  In  the 
morning  I  shan't  want  to — because  I'm  going  out  to  look 
for  a  job.  .  .  ." 

Felix  smiled.  "Wolf !  wolf  !"  he  mocked  gently.  He  had 
heard  that  threat  of  a  job  too  often  to  be  alarmed  about 
it  now. 

"You'll  see,"  said  Rose-Ann  gaily. 

3 

Felix  was  accustomed,  by  masculine  prerogative,  to  get 
up  first  on  cold  mornings  and  shake  down  the  fire  and  make 
the  coffee.  But  this  morning,  having  dreamed  that  he  had 
arisen  and  performed  these  duties  (a  very  realistic  dream — 
he  had  heard  the  noise  of  the  poker  among  the  coals  and 
smelled  the  fragrance  of  hot  coffee ! )  he  awoke  to  see  Rose- 
Ann  coming  toward  him  with  a  cup  and  saucer,  on  a  lac 
quered  tray. 

"Your  morning  draught,  my  lord !" 


Symbols  253 

"Rose-Ann!"  he  said  angrily.  She  should  have  let  him 
make  that  coffee.  .  .  . 

She  knelt  and  offered  him  the  cup,  with  the  air  of  a 
page-boy.  Then  it  was  that  he  saw  that  her  hair  was  shorn. 
Short  bronze  locks  fell  clustering  about  her  face  in  tiny 
curls,  making  it  boyish,  and  yet,  it  seemed,  more  girlish 
than  ever.  She  turned  sideways  as  he  stared,  and  tilted  her 
head.  For  the  first  time  its  proud  contour  stood  fully 
and  beautifully  revealed.  "Isn't  that  better  than  an  old 
top-knot?"  she  said. 

"But  how—  "  he  began. 

"Borrowed  scissors  from  neighbour,"  she  replied.  "What 
are  neighbours  for,  if  not  to  depend  on  in  an  emergency?" 

"Why  is  this  an  emergency?"  he  demanded,  still  with 
holding  his  approval.  "Couldn't  you  wait  and  go  to  the 
barber?"  Some  of  the  edges,  he  noted,  were  rather  jagged. 

"No,  Felix.  Don't  you  remember  Browning's  poem  about 
the  Statue  and  the  Bust?  One  puts  off  things.  'So  days 
grew  months,  years.'  Moral:  do  it  now. — But  do  you  like 
me  this  way,  Felix?" 

"Of  course  I  like  you."  And  then,  since  he  did,  he  added  : 
"Tremendously !" 

"You — you  approve?" 

"Yes,  but  what  of  that?  Can't  you  do  what  you  like 
whether  I  approve  or  not?  Aren't  you  a  free  woman?" 
he  teased  her. 

"That's  what  I  said  to  myself.  And  so  I  did  it.  But— 
I'm  glad  you  like  it,  Felix,  because — because  I'm  not  sure 
whether  I  do  or  not!" 

He  laughed.     "It  will  grow  again." 

"No— I  shan't  let  it  grow  again.  I'm  going  to  like  it,  I 
know — eventually  ;  perhaps  very  soon.  It's  just  at  first.  .  .  . 
But  I  suppose  that's  the  way  with  freedom!  .  .  .  Drink 
your  coffee,  Felix,  before  it  gets  cold.  I'll  bring  mine  over 
there,  too.  Do  you  love  me — very  much  ?  Look  out — you'll 
spill  the  coffee !" 


XXXVIII.  The  Portrait  of  Felix  Fay 


ROSE-ANN'S  bobbed  hair  was  generally  applauded. 
There  were  more  studio  parties.  Felix  frivoled, 
theorized,  and  wrote  jocund  dramatic  criticisms,  with 
the  thought  of  Hawkins  always  at  the  back  of  his  mind. 

Hawkins's  play  had  been  cast,  re-cast,  rewritten,  and 
finally  tried  out  "on  the  dog,"  that  is  to  say,  an  audience  at 
Atlantic  City.  And  something  was  still  wrong.  So  the  cast 
had  been  dismissed,  the  scenery  stored,  and  Hawkins  was 
desperately  rewriting  his  play  for  the  seventeenth  time  —  this 
time  in  collaboration  with  an  expert  farce-builder.  And 
Felix  remained  for  a  while  longer  the  acting  dramatic  critic 
of  the  Chronicle.  He  figured  that  if  enough  misfortunes 
happened  to  Hawkins's  farce,  his  own  tenure  in  office  might 
last  long  enough  to  entitle  him  to  it  in  the  end.  With  the 
most  amiable  feelings  toward  Hawkins,  he  nevertheless  fer 
vently  wished  "Tootsie-Wootsie"  the  worst  of  bad  luck. 

Meanwhile,  early  in  January,  he  began  having  his  portrait 
painted  by  Dorothy  Sheridan. 


Having  one's  portrait  painted  was  decidedly  an  experience. 
When  he  came  for  his  first  sitting,  he  found  Dorothy 
Sheridan  in  a  big  kitchen  apron,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up, 
looking  more  as  if  she  were  going  to  cook  a  meal  than  paint 
a  picture.  She  had  called  "Come !"  to  his  knock,  and  when 
he  entered  she  went  on  scraping  the  paint  from  a  palette 
with  no  more  than  a  casual  nod  to  him.  He  put  his  hat 
under  his  arm,  and  shifting  his  stick  to  the  crook  of  his 
elbow,  took  out  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it;  then  turned  and 
looked  curiously  and  hesitantly  about  the  room. 

254 


The  Portrait  of  Felix  Fay          255 

"There!  Keep  that!  Just  that  way!"  Dorothy  Sheri 
dan  called.  "That's  very  good.  Very  characteristic.  No, 
just  as  you  were.  That's  right — relax  a  little." 

She  gave  him  these  orders  from  half  way  across  the  large 
studio  room,  where  she  stood  in  a  brusque  commanding 
attitude.  Felix  obeyed. 

"One  minute!"  And  she  ran  up  the  steps  to  the  mez 
zanine  behind  and  above  Felix,  and  presently  he  heard  from 
overhead  the  swish  of  falling  cloth.  He  half  turned,  and 
saw  that  she  had  flung  over  the  edge  of  the  mezzanine  rail 
ing  a  long  piece  of  rose-coloured  silk,  which  reached  the 
floor  behind  him. 

"That's  for  a  background,"  she  said,  and  Felix  resumed 
his  pose. 

She  came  back,  pushed  out  an  easel  not  far  from  him 
and  a  little  to  one  side,  and  then  took  up  a  position  at  a 
distance  from  both  him  and  the  easel,  armed  with  a  brown 
crayon.  She  looked  at  him  intently,  with  wide  eyes,  bend 
ing  a  little,  with  head  forward  and  face  uplifted.  "Mm," 
she  said,  reflectively  z  and  walked  swiftly  up  to  the  easel  and 
commenced  to  draw  upon  the  blank  canvas  with  swift, 
vigorous  strokes  of  her  crayon.  After  a  little,  she  walked 
back  to  her  former  place,  resumed  her  wide-eyed  stare,  and 
then  returned  once  more  to  the  canvas. 

After  half  an  hour  of  this,  looking  at  her  subject  and 
drawing  on  the  canvas  in  turn,  she  threw  down  her  crayon. 
"Can  you  remember  that  pose?"  she  asked. 

Of  course  Felix  could  remember  it.  It  was  a  pose  into 
which  he  fell  naturally.  "Yes,"  he  said.  "May  I  look?" 

"If  you  want  to,"  she  said  indifferently,  taking  off  her 
apron. 

Felix  strolled  over  and  looked  at  the  crayon  sketch  on  the 
canvas.  It  was  a  bold  caricature  of  himself,  poised  hes 
itantly  with  stick  and  cigarette,  blithe,  debonair,  and  above 
all  a  figure  of  indecision.  Was  that  himself  ? 

"That's  all  for  today,"  said  the  painter.  "Same  time, 
same  day,  next  week.  Don't  forget." 

He  went  away,  startled  and  puzzled. 


256  The  Briary-Bush 

Next  week,  as  he  came  in,  eager  for  one  more  look  at 
that  disconcerting  caricature,  he  found  the  artist  painting  it 
out  with  a  thin  grey  wash. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  that  was  only  to  get  the  pose,"  she  said.  "This 
time  I  want  to  get  the  likeness." 

The  portrait  seemed  to  Felix  completed  at  the  end  of  an 
hour,  when  she  declared  the  sitting  over  and  took  off  her 
apron.  It  was  utterly  different  from  the  crayon  caricature 
which  had  preceded  it  on  the  canvas.  Out  of  the  misty 
grey  background  emerged  a  face  and  two  hands,  delicately 
painted,  and  catching  the  quizzical  expression  of  mouth  and 
eyes  and  the  rather  limp  gesture  of  the  hands,  but  in  a 
manner  which  did  not  carry  more  than  a  few  feet  from 
the  canvas.  Moreover,  this  painting  was  utterly  unlike  the 
other  things  of  hers  that  he  had  seen.  He  wondered,  but 
the  painter  had  hung  up  her  apron  and  was  looking  at  a 
portfolio  of  drawings,  indifferent  to  his  existence,  so  he 
withdrew. 

The  next  time  provided  still  a  new  surprise.  The  painter 
had  just  washed  out  the  face  and  hands  on  the  canvas  with 
turpentine,  and  was  scraping  off  the  paint  when  he  came 
in.  Was  this  a  confession  of  failure?  or  some  new  way 
of  painting?  or  simply  the  way  all  painters  went  to  work? 

He  was  pretty  certain,  however,  that  the  method  pursued 
in  this  present  sitting  was  extraordinary;  for  this  time  the 
painter  measured  his  head  with  a  pair  of  calipers,  up  and 
down  and  in  every  direction,  and  noted  down  the  figures 
on  a  piece  of  paper  and  regarded  them  thoughtfully.  Then 
she  came  up  to  him  and  felt  of  his  skull  with  her  hands; 
it  was  not  in  the  least  like  a  caress — it  was  exactly  as  if  she 
were  a  surgeon,  and  he  were  a  patient,  about  to  be  operated 
upon. 

"Bones!"  she  said,  as  if  that  explained  everything,  and 
went  to  work  on  her  canvas  with  a  brush  dipped  in  blue 
paint.  .  .  .  The  result,  which  Felix  viewed  with  a  very  queer 
sensation  at  the  end  of  the  sitting,  was  a  skeleton-like  figure 
done  in  blue,  with  arms  and  legs  like  pieces  of  steel  machin- 


The  Portrait  of  Felix  Fay          257 

ery,  and  a  face  with  dark  blue  eyesockets  and  a  pale  blue 
jaw.  .  .  .  "Lines  of  force,"  explained  the  painter,  and  he 
went  away  not  knowing  whether  to  laugh  or  not. 

This  skeleton  was  obliterated  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fourth  sitting,  as  the  other  stages  of  the  picture  had  been, 
and  Felix  wondered,  what  next?  Colour,  it  seemed,  this 
time!  Great  splashes  and  daubs  of  colour,  put  on  anyhow, 
spread  out  with  a  palette-knife,  or  the  painter's  thumb — a 
riot,  an  orgy  of  rose  and  green  and  purple-brown,  with 
only  a  suggestion  of  Felix  amid  the  chromatic  swirls.  .  .  . 

Felix  described  each  of  these  stages  to  Rose-Ann  with 
zest,  and  went  with  infinite  curiosity  to  every  new  sit 
ting.  .  .  . 

The  fifth  time  there  was  a  blank  new  canvas  awaiting  him, 
and  when  he  asked  what  had  become  of  the  other,  she 
replied :  "Burned  it  up.  All  covered  with  paint.  Always 
use  a  fresh  canvas  if  you  can  afford  it." 

She  emerged  from  her  preoccupation  with  her  palette 
long  enough  to  become  aware  of  his  surprise,  and  to  explain 
further : 

"All  that  was  just  getting  acquainted  with  my  subject. 
Now  we're  ready  to  begin." 

And  taking  up  her  position,  a  little  closer  this  time  to 
him  and  the  easel,  she  bent  upon  him  that  wide-eyed, 
impersonal  stare  .  .  .  Felix  was  rather  in  awe  of  her  by  this 
time.  She  had  ceased  to  seem  to  him  the  careless,  slangy 
bohemian  girl  that  he  had  first  known.  She  was  an  expert 
and  delicate  technician.  Those  four  portraits  in  succession 
had  stunned  his  imagination.  She  seemed  to  him  almost 
superhuman — with  a  little  of  the  flavour  of  black  magic  in 
her.  That  wide-eyed  impersonal  stare  was  part  of  the  effect. 
At  first  she  seemed  merely  a  pretty  girl  lifting  her  face  to 
yours  and  looking  at  you,  steadily ;  and  if  one  was  not  used 
to  returning  the  wide-eyed  stare  of  a  pretty  girl,  one  became 
a  little  embarrassed — there  is  something  so  intimate  about 
this  meeting  and  touching  through  the  eyes;  one  seems  to 
be  let  in,  unreservedly,  to  some  mysterious  depth.  But,  as 
the  stare  continued,  piercing  you,  probing  you,  seeing  you 


258  The  Briary-Bush 

with  calm  indifference,  you  became  uneasy  and  almost 
afraid — you  wanted  to  look  away,  and  that  seemed  cowardly 
and  evasive,  so  you  kept  on  staring  back  as  long  as  you 
could  .  .  .  until  those  dark  blue  eyes  of  hers  seemed 
profound  gulfs  over  which  you  hung,  dizzy,  tottering,  about 
to  drown.  .  .  .  And  then,  saying  "Mm,"  she  went  over  to 
her  canvas  again  and  put  on  a  little  dab  of  paint.  She  had 
probably  been  considering  carefully  whether  or  not  she  had 
made  your  nose  too  long ! 

3 

Felix  raved  in  this  fashion  to  Rose-Ann,  who  heard  him 
with  interest  and  in  silence  till  he  had  finished. 

"And  what  does  the  portrait  look  like  now?"  she  asked. 

"Well — very  much  like  any  other  portrait,  I  must  say. 
A  little  bolder,  and  lots  of  colour,  but  nothing  startling. 
Or  perhaps  I've  become  so  used  to  startling  things  by  now 
that  this  seems  a  little  tame." 

The  last  sitting  was  a  prolonged  one,  in  which  the  painter 
looked  at  him  for  what  seemed  hours  at  a  time,  and  in 
which  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  perturbing  conviction 
that  she  was  seeing  into  his  soul.  .  .  .  He  was  very  tired 
when  she  finished  at  last — the  sitting  had  as  a  matter  of  fact 
taken  two  hours,  with  only  a  few  momentary  rests — and 
Felix  was  in  a  mood  of  weariness  and  self-distrust  when 
he  went  over  to  look  at  the  completed  portrait.  Perhaps 
that  accounted  for  what  he  saw : 

Painted  with  an  exquisite  and  mordant  irony — with  stick 
and  cigarette,  uncertainly  halting,  as  if  in  front  of  life, 
the  head  tilted  with  a  quirk  of  inquiry,  the  face  curious 
and  evasive,  with  something  that  was  almost  boldness  in  the 
eyes,  something  that  was  almost  courage  in  the  chin — 
Felix  Fay,  observant,  indecisive,  inadequate,  against  a  rose- 
coloured  background. 


XXXIX.  A  Date  on  the  Calendar 


THE  memory  of  that  portrait  left  Felix  bewildered 
and  irritated.     It  seemed  that  no  one  else  saw  in  it 
quite  what  he  had  seen.     Rose-Ann  praised  it— but 
with  some  reserve  which  made  him  feel  that  she  did  not 
really  like  it.     Clive  was  delighted  with  the  certainty  with 
which  the  painter  had  captured  his  characteristic  gesture. 
Only   he  himself,   apparently,   saw  it  as  a  criticism, 
profound  and  harsh.  .  .  . 

The  painter  herself  least  of  all  saw  it  as  a  criticism, 
that  what  you  really  think  of  me?"  he  had  asked  her. 

"I  don't  think  when  I  paint  pictures,"  she  had  said.  "I'm 
too  busy  working  out  the  problems  of  form  and  colour. 
Don't  you  like  it?" 

"I  like  it  as  a  picture.     I  don't  like  it  as  a— a  prophecy, 
he  said. 

"A  prophecy?  Oh,  there  you  come  with  your  literary 
interpretations.  Can't  you  forget  that  stuff,  and  learn  to 
look  at  a  picture  as  a  picture  ?" 

She  had  ceased  to  be  the  Sybyl,  and  become  again  the 
careless  bohemian  girl-artist,  talking  the  talk  of  her  tribe. 
Pictures  were  just  pictures — yes,  he  had  heard  that 
before. 

Morose  and  fretful,  he  walked  up  and  down  in  the  studio 
in  the  evening,  rejecting  Rose- Ann's  plans  for  other  en 
tertainment  ;  or  sat  at  his  desk,  exasperatedly  trying  to  force 
himself  to  begin  work  on  some  half-formed  idea  for  a  play. 
He  was  angry  at  himself  for  being  the  indecisive,  inadequate 
figure  of  that  painting.  He  saw  now  what  being  an  artist 
meant— the  calm  energy,  the  technical  erudition,  the  vast 
patience  that  was  needed.  He  wished  to  be  that  kind  of 

259 


260  The  Briary-Bush 

person.  And  the  more  he  wished  it,  the  more  weak  and 
petulant  he  seemed  to  himself.  And  what  must  he  seem  to 
Rose- Ann?  She  must  despise  him  in  her  heart.  .  .  . 

For  a  week  he  fidgeted  and  fumed  about  the  studio, 
ashamed  of  his  childish  behaviour  and  yet  unable  to  control 
it.  He  wondered  why  Rose-Ann  did  not  tell  him  what  she 
really  thought  of  him.  ...  It  was  as  if  he  were  trying,  by 
a  more  and  more  outrageous  parade  of  his  weakness,  to 
force  her  to  break  silence  and  speak  out. 

Late  one  afternoon,  when  he  had  crumpled  up  the  sheet 
of  paper  on  which  he  had  been  trying  to  write,  and  thrown 
it  on  the  floor  with  a  silly  gesture  of  failure,  she  put  down 
her  sewing  and  came  up  to  him. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Felix,  dear?"  she  asked. 

He  drew  himself  away.  "I  wish  you  would  let  me  alone/' 
he  said. 

"Very  well,"  Rose-Ann  said  gently,  and  went  and  put 
on  her  hat  and  cloak  and  left  the  studio. 


For  a  moment  he  sat  there,  looking  at  the  door  through 
which  she  had  gone  with  a  sudden  sense  of  utter  desolation. 

They  had  had  quarrels  before,  but  this  was  different. 
He  had  driven  her  away.  ...  It  would  serve  him  right  if 
she  never  came  back.  .  .  . 

Why  had  he  been  making  such  a  fool  of  himself  ?  Why 
had  he  been  behaving  like  a  silly  child  ? 

And  all  at  once  he  felt  that  he  knew  the  answer.  .  .  .  He 
was  worrying  about  that  damned  job  of  his. 

Rose-Ann  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  he  was  secure  in 
his  position.  He  had  pretended  to  weigh  his  chances,  pro 
and  con.  .  .  .  And  all  the  while  he  had  been  deeply 
convinced  that  he  was  about  to  lose  his  momentary  distinc 
tion.  Hawkins's  play  was  being  tried  out  again,  this  week. 
It  would  fail,  he  would  give  up  his  foolishness,  return  to 
Chicago,  and  Felix  would  be  back  precisely  where  he  had 
started.  That,  of  course,  though  he  had  not  told  Rose-Ann, 


A  Date  on  the  Calendar  261 

was  why  he  had  felt  she  was  right  in  not  wanting  to  have 
children  right  away. 

It  was  this  impending  crisis  in  his  career  that  secretly 
worried  him.  For  nearly  a  year  he  had  been  a  dramatic 
critic_and  he  was  about  to  lose  his  job.  It  was  a  degrada 
tion  intolerable  to  contemplate,  but  impossible  to  prevent. 
How  could  he  prevent  it?  In  romantic  novels,  the  hero 
wins  his  spurs.  But  there  were,  so  to  speak,  only  one  pair 
of  critical  spurs  at  the  disposal  of  the  Chronicle,  and  they 
belonged  to  Hawkins !  In  a  magazine  story,  Felix  would  go 
over  to  another  paper  and  get  a  better  job.  But  Felix 
disbelieved  in  his  ability  to  hold  with  any  distinction  any 
ordinary  reporter's  job.  By  some  fluke  he  had  made  good 
as  a  dramatic  critic.  He  saw  people  on  the  elevated  turning 
the  paper  inside  out  to  read  first  of  all  his  column  about  the 
new  play.  He  knew  he  had  made  good.  But — dramatic 
editorships  do  not  grow  on  blackberry  bushes;  dramatic 
critics  die  in  their  shoes  at  an  advanced  age.  Hawkins's 
folly  had  given  him  such  a  chance  as  would  never  happen 
again  in  a  hundred  years. 

A  chance?  A  brief  hour  of  glory.  An  hour  for  Rose- 
Ann  to  be  proud  of  him,  to  believe  that  he  had  risen  by 
force  of  character  to  these  heights,  that  he  would  continue 
to  rise.  .  .  .  She  would  find  out  that  it  had  been  mere  luck. 
She  would  find  out  that  he  could  not  even  keep  a  job  as  a 
dramatic  critic,  let  alone  become  a  playwright.  She  would 
discover  him  for  what  he  was— a  weak,  helpless,  scared  child. 
That  was  why  he  had  been  behaving  like  a  fool  before 
her— to  show  her  beforehand  that  he  didn't  amount  to 
anything. 

Suddenly  he  commenced  to  laugh.  The  mood  of  the  last 
week  had  vanished— it  merely  seemed  funny  now.  Another 
attack  of  moon-calfishness,  that  was  all !  That  painter-girl 
had  awed  him  with  her  astounding  technique,  made  him 
feel  incompetent  and  helpless — thrown  him  back  into  a  state 
of  adolescent  self-distrust.  Yes,  it  was  her  fault,  the  preten 
tious  hussy!  And  what,  after  all  her  fussing,  did  that 
picture  of  hers  amount  to?  An  ordinary  portrait,  that  was 


262  The  Briary-Bush 

all,  with  a  touch  of  easy  caricature  in  it.  ...  Damn  her! 

And  what  if  Hawkins  did  come  back  and  take  away  his 
laurels?  There  were  other  jobs  in  the  world.  If  not  in 
Chicago,  then — 

Yes,  in  New  York.  .  .  . 

It  didn't  make  any  difference  what  happened.  He  had 
been  silly  to  worry  about  things.  He  would  never  worry 
again  about  anything.  Rose- Ann  was  right.  One  must  live 
fearlessly.  .  .  . 

He  wished  Rose-Ann  would  come  back. 


The  door  opened,  and  she  was  there.     He  sprang  up. 

She  shut  the  door  behind  her  and  put  her  back  against 
it,  and  her  hands,  as  if  to  support  herself. 

Felix  stood  staring  at  her  in  surprise.  She  was  pale, 
and  she  had  a  heroic  air,  somehow.  She  tried  to  speak — 
twice — and  made  no  sound,  only  a  movement  of  the  throat 
and  lips. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked  anxiously,  going  up  to  her. 

She  put  out  her  hands,  as  if  to  hold  him  away,  and  let 
them  rest  on  his  shoulders.  She  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"Felix,"  she  said.  "Felix.  ...  I  know  what  is  troubling 
you." 

"Yes?"  he  said,  confusedly. 

"It's  that  girl.  You're  in  love  with  her,  Felix.  Well — 
I  keep  my  promise.  You — you  can — " 

"What  girl?"  he  asked,  amazed. 

"Dorothy !"  she  cried.  "You're  in  love  with  her.  I  knew 
it  all  along." 

"What!" 

"Yes.     I  can't  bear  to  see  you  unhappy.     I'd  rather — " 

He  laughed  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  "Little  fool !"  he 
said.  "Little  silly  child !  Dear  little  idiot !"' 

She  burst  out  crying,  and  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"I'm  not  in  love  with  anybody,  you  goose,  except  you," 
he  said.  "What  made  you  think  I  was?  I  suppose  I  have 


A  Date  on  the  Calendar  263 

been  acting  crazy.  I  know  I  have.  But  it's  a  different 
kind  of  craziness.  I  was  worrying  about — my  job." 

"Your  job?"  She  looked  up  from  his  shoulder.  "Have 
you  heard  already?  I  just  left  Clive  at  the  corner." 

"Give  ?  Heard  what  ?  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about." 

"He  was  coming  down  to  tell  you  the  news.  You  don't 
know  it?  Well — a  telegram  came  this  afternoon.  From 
Hawkins.  He's  resigned.  And  you've  been  appointed  in 
his  place." 

"Really!" 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  knew  that  was  what  would  happen. 
But  Felix — are  you  sure?"  She  meant  about  Dorothy. 

"You're  crazier  than  I  am,  Rose-Ann — that's  all." 

"Well — "  and  she  dried  her  tears.  "I  guess  I  am  a 
fool.  .  .  .  But  Felix — I  left  Clive  at  the  corner  drug-store. 
I  was  very  mysterious,  and  said  he  mustn't  come  here  to  the 
studio,  but  that  he  was  to  wait  there  for  me." 

"What  for?" 

"I — told  him  I  wanted  him  to  help  me  celebrate  an — 
occasion.  But — 

"What  kind  of  occasion?"  Felix  asked  sternly.  "Did 
you  tell  him  any  of  this  nonsensical — " 

"No,  Felix,  I  didn't  tell  him  anything.  But — but  we  can 
still  celebrate  an  occasion,  Felix." 

"You  mean  my  job?" 

"No — I  mean  the — the  anniversary  of  our  marriage.  .  .  ." 

"You  poor  abused  darling!  What  an  idiot  I  am!"  And 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  again. 

"I'll  wash  my  face,  and  be  sensible  now,"  she  said.  "You 
go  and  get  Clive,  and — and  we'll  celebrate !" 


XL.  Celebration 


THERE  was  something  puzzling  to  Felix  about  that 
celebration.  .  .  . 
Surely  no  marriage  anniversary  had  ever  before 
been  marked  in  quite  this  fashion — by  a  wife's  offer  to  give 
up  her  husband's  love  to  another  woman ! 

Already  Rose-Ann  appeared  to  have  forgotten  that  in 
cident,  as  she  sat,  flushed  and  happy,  at  the  table  with  Felix 
and  Give  in  the  gay  restaurant  they  had  chosen.  Or  no, 
not  forgotten  it ;  for  it  might  perhaps  be  that  very  memory, 
even  more  than  the  occasion  itself,  which  made  her  so 
radiant — that  secret,  giving  to  a  commonplace  occasion  a 
special  quality  of  romantic  uniqueness ! 

So  Felix,  watching  her,  thought  he  read  her  mind.  And 
he  was  perturbed.  She  had  enjoyed  that  fictitious  renuncia 
tion.  She  had  needed  the  taste,  as  it  were,  of  bitterness,  to 
savour  their  happiness.  She  loved  him ;  and  she  had  played 
with  the  idea  of  losing  his  love.  ...  To  have  faced  that 
danger — yes,  to  have  faced  it,  even  more  than  to  have  come 
off  safely — intoxicated  her.  There  was  a  new  light  in  her 
eyes,  a  dancing  light  of  joyous  and  reckless  courage,  a  new 
pride  in  the  toss  of  her  head  with  its  cluster  of  red-gold 
curls.  .  .  . 

He  felt  that  to  her  it  was  not  enough  to  be  happy;  her 
happiness  must  be  snatched  from  the  jaws  of  peril.  She 
was  grateful  to  him,  not  for  being  in  love  with  her  after 
all — but  for  having  given  her  occasion  for  a  moment  to 
think  otherwise! 

A  strange  creature  to  have  for  a  wife,  he  meditated, 
watching  her.  She  was  more  lovely  tonight  than  she  had 

264 


Celebration  265 

ever  been,  he  thought.  .  .  .  And  by  what  bond  did  he  hold 
this  strange  and  lovely  creature  by  his  side?  Not  by  the 
tie  of  any  promise.  She  had  made  him  no  promises.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  security  in  their  relationship;  she  did  not 
want  security !  She  wanted  adventure ;  and  so  long  as  their 
marriage  was  an  adventure — ! 

That  was  what  they  were  celebrating — not  the  mere  pas 
sage  of  one  year  of  a  lifelong  marriage,  but  the  beginning 
of  another  year  of  rash  adventure.  .  .  .  And  in  what  curious 
and  fantastic  ways  would  their  love  be  tested  in  that  year 
to  come  ?  He  wondered.  .  .  . 


"Have  you  heard  about  McQuish?"  Clive  was  saying  to 
Rose-Ann. 

"No?    What?"  she  asked. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Felix,  "that  he  had  had  a  row  with  the 
Old  Man  over  a  book  review  he  wrote." 

"Oh,  yes,  so  you  did.  And  that  he's  talking  of  leaving 
to  write  a  novel." 

"Chicago  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  its  wonders  to 
perform,"  said  Clive.  "Do  you  remember,  Felix,  when  you 
came  on  the  paper  a  year  or  so  ago? — McQuish  was  the 
Marvellous  Boy,  then.  The  Old  Man  was  proud  of  him. 
He  could  write  whatever  he  liked.  .  .  .  And  now  the  Old 
Man  reads  every  word  he  writes  with  a  suspicious  eye. 
They  had  this  row  last  week ;  and  it's  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  ...  I  know:  I  had  my  day  a  little  earlier  than  Mc 
Quish;  now  it's  all  I  can  do  to  get  along.  That's  what 
happens  to  young  intellectuals  in  Chicago.  They  are  fed 
up  on  praise  and  petting  for  a  year  or  two;  and  then  they 
get  thrown  out  on  their  necks.  And  a  darn  good  thing,  too ! 
Otherwise  we  would  stay  here  and  write  fiddling  things  for 
the  daily  papers  all  our  lives.  But  now  McQuish  will 
quit  and  write  a  novel;  and  if  I  have  any  sense,  I  will 
do  the  same." 

"And  my  turn  will  come  next,  you  mean?"  Felix  asked. 

"Not  for  a  while.  .  .  .  I've  been  trying  to  figure  the  thing 


266  The  Briary-Bush 

out.  Felix  came  here,  you  know,  scared  to  death  of  Chica 
go  ;  he  can't  believe  yet  in  his  good  luck !  He  didn't  really 
believe  he  was  going  to  get  Hawkins's  job.  Everybody  else 
knew  he  was  slated  for  it.  ...  When  you  go  back  to  the 
office  tomorrow,  Felix,  the  Old  Man  will  give  you  a  cigar 
and  tell  you  what  a  fine  fellow  you  are.  And  it  will  take  him 
all  of  a  year  to  discover  that  you  aren't  a  fine  fellow.  .  .  . 
We  are  a  deceptive  lot,  we  young  intellectuals;  the  powers 
that  be  think  they  can  use  us  in  their  business;  and  it's 
some  time  before  they  wake  up  to  discover  that  we  are 
playing  a  game  of  our  own.  ...  I  give  you  a  year  at  least 
to  flourish  in,  Felix !  And  make  the  most  of  it — for  about 
this  time  next  year  you  will  be  pulling  up  stakes  and  depart 
ing  elsewhere.  What  do  you  think,  Rose- Ann?" 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "So  long  as  things  keep 
happening !" 

3 

They  had  said  good-night  to  Clive  and  came  back  to  the 
studio.  Rose- Ann  turned  to  Felix  suddenly,  just  inside  the 
closed  door. 

"You  remember  what  I  told  you  here — a  little  while  ago," 
she  began. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  doubtfully. 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  "I  meant  it,  you  know," 
she  said. 

"Oh— that!" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  I'm  terribly  glad  it  wasn't  true,  what  I  thought 
— about  you  and  Dorothy.  But  if  it  had  been — !" 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it,"  he  said  uncomfortably. 

"But  Felix !"  she  protested. 

"Well  ?" 

"I  know  I  was  crying,  and  behaving  like  a  silly  idiot  and 
everything — but  you  must  believe  that  I  meant  what  I  said. 
Do  you,  Felix?" 

Her  face  was  grave  now,  her  eyes  solemn.  Something  in 
his  heart  leaped  to  rejoice  in  the  courage  that  lay  behind 


Celebration  267 

her  utterance.     He  wanted  to  believe  it,  and  at  the  same 

time  he  feared  to  believe  it. 
She  read  the  doubt  in  his  eyes. 
"You   don't  believe  me?"  she   said.     "If  the  time  ever 

comes  to  prove  it,  Felix- 
He  smiled.     "We'll  cross  our  bridges  when  we  come  to 

them,"  he  said. 


Book  Five 
Garfield  Boulevard 


XLI.  Changes 


THE  second  year  of  marriage  began  for  Felix  with  a 
sense  of  uneasy  anticipation.  It  was  as  if  things — 
strange,  unknown  things — were  about  to  happen. 

He  tried,  by  taking  thought,  to  discover  the  reason  for 
his  vague  anxieties.  But,  viewed  rationally,  they  seemed 
absurd.  He  attempted  to  dismiss  them. 

He  was  happy.  And  Rose-Ann,  in  her  own  restless 
fashion,  was  happy,  too.  What  could  the  future  bring  to 
disturb  their  happiness  ?  Nothing ! 

His  economic  status,  moreover,  even  upon  Give's  calcula 
tions,  was  secure  for  another  year  at  least.  And  he  was 
writing  again,  this  time  to  please  himself.  Rose-Ann  should 
have  no  cause  for  complaint  upon  that  score.  .  .  . 

And  yet  the  vague  anxieties  persisted  in  the  background 
of  his  thoughts. 

It  was  as  though  he  had  in  some  way  lost  confidence  in 
Rose-Ann. 

He  told  himself  that  it  was  only  that  he  knew  her  better 
now.  He  had  been  foolish  to  assume  that  he  could  trust 
utterly  in  her  instincts  for  guidance.  She  was,  like  him,  a 
bewildered  wanderer,  not  knowing  the  right  path.  She 
was  more  like  himself  than  he  had  ever  dreamed. 

He  could  not  rely  blindly  upon  her.  He  must  decide 
things  for  himself. 

It  made  him  feel  a  little  lonely,  a  little  frightened — as 
one  might  feel  in  the  woods,  discovering  that  one's  guide  is 
a  romantic  ignoramus  like  oneself  ! 


That  was  one  reason  why  he  did  not  want  to  show  Rose- 
Ann  the  new  play  upon  which  he  was  working.     It  would 

271 


272  The  Briary-Bush 

have  pleased  her — perhaps  all  too  well!  In  this  play,  a 
variation  upon  the  familiar  triangle  situation,  the  heroine 
kept  her  husband  because  she  was  not  afraid  to  lose  him.  .  .  . 

Yes,  that  would  have  pleased  Rose-Ann.  Then  why  did 
Felix  feel  absurdly  guilty  of  some  kind  of  spiritual  dis 
loyalty  to  her  in  writing  it  ? 

He  did  not  quite  know ;  but  it  was  true  that  when  Rose- 
Ann  was  in  the  studio  he  could  not  with  any  freedom  work 
on  that  play.  .  .  . 

Rose-Ann  felt  this,  and  presently  suggested  that  he  try 
the  experiment  of  working  in  a  rented  room  somewhere  not 
too  far  from  the  studio.  He  was  surprised  to  find  that  in 
talking  with  Rose-Ann  he  indignantly  repelled  the  idea  as 
totally  objectionable.  He  was  absurdly  angry  at  her  for 
suggesting  it. 

It  would  have  been  intolerable  if  Rose-Ann  had  been 
jealous  of  his  writing;  and  yet  he  was  behaving  as  though  she 
ought  to  be  jealous  of  it.  ...  A  strange  quirk  of  the 
imagination ! 

Was  he  disappointed  in  her  for  not  being  the  mentor 
and  guide  he  had  tried  to  believe  her — angry  at  her  for 
insisting  upon  his  finding  his  own  pathway  through  the 
woods  ? 

3 

When  Rose-Ann  brought  up  for  a  second  time  the  sub 
ject  of  a  work-room,  Felix  admitted  that  it  might  be  worth 
considering.  And  that  same  day  he  went  out  room-hunting. 
He  had  not  admitted  to  himself  that  he  really  wanted  such 
a  place — but  when,  in  a  house  on  Garfield  Boulevard,  he 
found  a  little  room  with  a  table  and  a  cot,  he  decided  that 
he  must  have  it.  He  told  the  landlady  he  would  probably 
need  it  only  a  short  time,  and  paid  two  weeks'  rent,  with  the 
option  of  renewal.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  want  to  tell  Rose-Ann  about  it.  He  said  to 
himself  that  he  wanted  to  wait  until  he  found  whether  he 
liked  it  or  not.  And  he  did  wait  until  he  had  spent  an 
afternoon  there  writing,  before  telling  her. 


Changes  273 

It  was  curious,  the  feeling  of  being  in  a  room  of  his  own 
that  nobody  in  the  world  knew  about,  not  even  Rose- Ann ! 
That  afternoon  he  seemed  to  throw  off  some  impalpable 
burden.  He  felt— free !  He  could  sit  there  and  write,  or 
dream,  as  long  as  he  wished,  with  nobody  to  call  him  to 
account  for  the  way  he  spent  his  time.  Not  that  Rose-Ann 
ever  did  call  him  to  account  in  such  a  manner;  it  was  the 
last  thing  in  the  world  she  would  ever  have  done.  But  now, 
as  never  since  his  marriage,  he  felt  utterly  by  himself.  .  .  . 
He  sat  dreaming  for  a  while,  and  then  commenced  to  write 
swiftly  a  little  play,  something  he  had  not  thought  of  at 
all  before,  a  light,  bright,  rather  cynical  and  pretty  little 
play  that  seemed  to  flow  out  by  its  own  energy— a  play 
dealing  with  characters  as  unreal  as  those  of  Congreve  or 
Wycherly,  inhabitants  of  the  same  polite  and  witty  realm  of 
the  imagination  as  Millamant  and  Mirabell. 

He  told  Rose- Ann  that  he  had  rented  a  room,  but  not  that 
he  had  written  a  play— for  it  was  a  short  one-act  affair  of 
twenty  pages,  which  he  had  practically  completed  at  a  sitting. 
He  took  an  inward  satisfaction  in  this  harmless  secret ;  and 
he  was  pleased  that  Rose-Ann  did  not  ask  exactly  where 
his  room  was,  but  only  congratulated  him  on  being  so  sen 
sible. 

4 

It  was  only  a  few  days  later  that  Rose-Ann  came  home 
with  the  news  that  she  had  carried  out  her  long  cherished 
intention  of  getting  a  job.  She  had  learned  by  accident 
that  there  was  an  opening  in  a  moving-picture  magazine. 
She  had  gone  there,  made  an  impression,  and  been  engaged 
as  assistant  editor.  . 

Felix  had  a  guilty  sense  that  his  desertion  of  their 
studio,  if  only  for  an  occasional  afternoon,  had  been 
responsible  for  her  action.  Certainly  he  was  no  longer  in 
a  position  to  oppose  her  wishes  in  this  matter.  His  plea 
had  been  that  a  job  would  deprive  him  of  her  society, 
had— though,  it  is  true,  at  her  suggestion— entered  into 
an  arrangement  which  threatened  to  deprive  her  of  much  of 


274  The  Briary-Bush 

his  society.     But,  if  there  was  any  spirit  of  retaliation  be 
hind  her  decision,  it  was  not  apparent  from  her  manner. 

She  was  delighted  with  the  new  scope  that  this  work  gave 
her  superabundant  energies ;  and  though  it  consisted  chiefly 
of  rewriting  illiterate  press-agentish  articles,  it  yielded 
her  a  renewed  sense  of  self-respect.  And  after  observing, 
a  little  uneasily,  for  a  week  or  two,  its  effect  upon  her,  he 
found  himself  rather  pleased. 

Her  office  hours,  though  fixed,  were  not  arduous.  And  if 
they  had  less  time  to  spend  together,  that  time  had  come  to 
seem  more  precious.  .  .  .  They  would  be  sitting  together  at 
breakfast  in  their  studio,  Rose- Ann  in  a  flame-colored  silk 
kimono  that  matched  her  curls,  pouring  coffee  for  him ;  all 
the  more  delightfully  his,  because  he  realized  that  when  the 
occasion  had  been  prolonged  another  five  minutes,  she 
would  glance  at  the  clock,  and  run  behind  the  screen,  to 
emerge  dressed  for  her  day's  work — no  longer  his,  but  be 
longing  to  some  impersonal  enterprise  for  which  he  cared 
less  than  nothing.  .  .  . 

They  would  meet  again  at  luncheon  at  the  little  Hunga 
rian  restaurant.  Clive  would  be  there.  And  the  fact  that 
they  were  all  three  of  them  snatching  this  hour  of  golden 
talk  and  comradeship  from  the  midst  of  a  working  day,  gave 
a  special  zest  to  the  occasion.  .  .  .  They  were,  it  seemed, 
happier  than  ever  before. 

"I've  always  something  I  can  do  for  my  old  magazine  in 
the  evening,"  said  Rose-Ann.  "I  won't  be  lonely.  Why 
don't  you  go  to  your  work-room?' 

Two  or  three  evenings  a  week  he  took  her  at  her  word, 
and  in  those  solitary  hours  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  creative 
fancy  had  begun  to  bloom  again. 


XLII.  An  Apparition 


HE  had  occupied  the  room  on  odd  afternoons  and 
evenings  for  a  month,  when  a  strange  encounter 
occurred — if  seeing  somebody  could  be  called  an 
encounter. 

It  was  a  warm  evening  early  in  April,  when  he  did  not 
feel  in  the  least  like  working.  .  .  . 

And  besides,  he  had  been  looking  over  the  three  little  one- 
act  plays  which  were  the  fruit  of  his  month's  work,  and 
they  seemed  to  him  trivial  and  silly ;  if  this  was  all  he  could 
do,  he  had  better  stop  trying  to  write  plays.  He  was  glad 
he  had  not  shown  them  to  Rose-Ann.  They  were  car 
icatures  of  life — not  without  some  grace,  touched  with  a 
queer,  decadent,  heartless  beauty,  but  essentially  worthless. 
Why  should  he  write  things  like  that?  One's  work  was  a 
reflection  of  one's  mind,  of  one's  life,  critics  said.  If  he 
had  judged  those  plays  as  a  critic,  he  would  have  drawn 
from  them  certain  inevitable  implications  with  respect  to  the 
author's  philosophy  and  mode  of  life;  they  were  apparently 
the  work  of  a  man  who  did  not  believe  in  anything,  and 
who  found  in  reality  no  true  satisfactions — otherwise  why 
should  he  turn  to  this  unreal  realm  of  modernized  Pierrots 
and  Columbines  for  solace? 

Pondering  this  enigma,  he  sat  in  the  open  window  and 
looked  out  on  the  street.  And  in  the  distance  he  saw  a 
figure  that  he  knew — a  girl. 

It  was  Phyllis,  the  girl  who  had  been  at  their  wedding. 
She  was  coming  toward  him,  and  he  recognized  her  with 
certainty  despite  the  fact  that  he  had  seen  her  only  once 
before  in  his  life. 

She  was  coming  down  the  street,  on  the  opposite  side; 

275 


276  The  Briary-Bush 

at  the  corner,  she  crossed  over,  coming  toward  the  house 
where  Felix  was  sitting  perched  in  his  third  story  window. 
She  came  straight  to  the  front  door  of  that  very  building, 
and  then,  after  the  slightest  interval,  Felix  heard  the  door 
slam.  She  had  entered  the  house. 

Felix  concluded  that  he  must  have  been  mistaken  as  to  her 
identity.  It  was  somebody  else  who  looked  like  Phyllis — 
that  was  all.  Phyllis  was  still  at  the  Teachers'  Institute; 
Clive  had  spoken  only  the  other  day  of  receiving  a  letter 
from  her.  But — 

He  listened;  some  one  was  coming  up  the  second  stair 
way.  Was  it  she?  And  if  so,  what  in  the  world  was  she 
doing  here  ?  It  was  too  late  to  be  calling  on  any  one ;  besides, 
she  had  not  rung  the  bell ;  she  had  entered,  as  if  she  belonged 
here.  If  it  were  Phyllis,  she  must  be  living  in  this  house. 
And  that  was  impossible. 

Felix,  listening  at  the  door,  heard  the  person,  whoever  it 
was,  cross  the  hall — and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  had 
stopped  at  his  door.  But  no — there  was  a  jingling  of  keys, 
and  he  realized  that  the  room  next  to  his  own  was  being 
unlocked.  He  opened  his  door  quietly — uncertain  now  if 
he  would  be  able  to  recognize  Phyllis,  and  anxious  not  to 
make  any  foolish  mistake.  She  was  standing  at  the  door, 
with  her  back  to  him,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock. 

Of  course  it  was  Phyllis! 

But  if  he  were  so  certain,  why  didn't  he  speak  to  her? 
He  was  so  close  that  he  could  have  touched  her.  Why 
did  he  let  her  go  without  a  word?  .  .  .  She  went  in,  and 
he  stood  staring  foolishly  at  the  closed  door. 

It  was  Phyllis,  without  the  slightest  doubt.  .  .  .  And  yet 
— it  would  be  awkward  to  knock  at  a  young  woman's  door 
at  midnight  and,  if  she  turned  out  to  be  the  wrong  person, 
stammer  out  a  lame  and  unconvincing  apology.  Why,  she 
was  probably  some  one  whom  he  had  seen,  in  his  unseeing 
way,  on  the  stairs  a  dozen  times,  some  one  who  had  seen 
him  so  often  that  his  explanation  of  mistaken  identity  would 
sound  very  hollow  indeed.  .  .  . 


An  Apparition  277 


The  next  evening,  coming  to  his  room,  he  heard  the  girl 
moving  about  in  hers. 

He  had  decided,  with  that  part  of  his  mind  which  dealt 
with  questions  of  practical  fact,  that  she  was  not  really 
Phyllis.  He  had  not  mentioned  his  queer  notion  about  her 
to  Rose-Ann.  But  if  it  pleased  him  to  think  his  neighbour 
was  Phyllis,  why  shouldn't  he? 

It  did  please  him ;  and  in  some  odd  way  helped  him  in  his 
work.  She  seemed  to  bring  with  her  into  his  place  of 
dreams  some  breath  of  sane  and  kindly  reality.  Her  unseen 
presence  there  in  the  next  room  took  some  of  the  fever  out 
of  his  strange  dramatic  fantasies,  made  them  more  human. 
He  wrote  more  easily,  with  greater  zest ;  and  in  the  intervals 
of  his  writing  it  was  comforting  to  hear  her  movements,  her 
mere  steps  across  the  floor,  the  sound  of  paper  rustling  in 
her  hands,  and  sometimes  the  bubbling  of  coffee  over  an 
alcohol  lamp. 

When  she  made  the  coffee  the  pungent  fumes  of  it  found 
their  way  through  the  locked  door  which  separated  his  room 
from  hers.  .  .  .  He  smiled,  thinking  how  startled  she  would 
be  if  he  should  knock  on  that  door,  and  demand  a  cup  of 
coffee.  ...  At  this  point  he  had  to  remind  himself  that  it 
was  not  really  Phyllis  there  on  the  other  side  of  that  door. 


But  it  really  was  Phyllis ! — that  was  the  strange  thing 
about  the  whole  affair.  .  .  .  Clive  had  at  last  confided  to  him 
that  Phyllis  was  in  town,  but  told  him  nothing  more ;  it  was 
Rose-Ann  who  told  him  that  Phyllis  had  come  to  Chicago, 
unknown  to  Clive,  and  got  herself  a  job,  before  letting  him 
know  anything  of  her  plans. 

"He's  finding  her  quite  too  much  for  him,"  said  Rose- Ann. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"I  mean — she's  been  his  pupil,  as  it  were,  all  along.  Now 
she's  demonstrating  her  independence." 

"Where  is  she  living?"  he  asked,  and  when  Rose-Ann 


278  The  Briary-Bush 

said  she  didn't  know,  he  told  her  of  the  girl  he  had  seen 
who  looked  like  Phyllis. 

"Why  didn't  you  speak  to  her  and  find  out?"  she  asked 
impatiently. 

"Why,  I  thought  it  must  be  a  mistake,"  he  said  awk 
wardly. 

"You  really  don't  care  anything  about  people  at  all,  do 
you,  Felix?"  she  said. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  it's  true.  You're  interested  only  in  ideas.  A 
girl  who  was  at  your  wedding  comes  and  lives  in  the  same 
house  with  you,  and  you  never  even  speak  to  her!  You 
are  a  strange  creature,  Felix.  For  heaven's  sake,  knock  at 
her  door,  and  bring  her  around  to  see  us.  Just  because  she 
wants  to  be  queer  and  not  see  anybody  is  no  reason  why 
we  shouldn't  be  friendly." 

4 

Yes,  it  was  Phyllis;  he  saw  her  again,  late  that  night, 
from  the  window,  plainly  revealed  by  the  glare  of  an  arc- 
light,  walking  with  Give  along  the  street  toward  the  house ; 
he  had  an  impulse  to  shout  to  them,  but  he  refrained,  and 
only  looked  on  while  they  came  slowly  over,  and  stood 
talking  in  front  of  the  door.  It  was  Phyllis,  but  she  had 
changed ;  or  was  it  only  some  constraint  in  her  manner  ?  No 
wonder  he  had  not  been  certain  of  her  identity.  She  had 
a  different  air;  all  the  quietness  was  gone  from  her — she 
seemed  the  embodiment  of  a  defiant  restlessness.  There  was 
a  reckless  impudence  in  the  whole  pose  of  her  body,  the  tilt 
of  her  head  as  she  stood  talking  to  Clive,  in  the  very  gesture 
of  her  arm  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Clive  in  good-bye. 
.  .  .  Clive  went  abruptly;  she  was  entering. 

Felix  could  hear  her  running  up  the  stairs.  He  ought  to 
go  out  and  speak  to  her.  But  he  did  not  want  to.  He  had 
a  sense  of  her  having  changed,  being  a  new  and  different 
person  that  he  did  not  like.  He  wanted  to  keep  the  compan 
ionship  of  the  Phyllis  whom  he  had  known  these  past  weeks 
in  imagination — he  did  not  want  for  a  neighbour  this  restless 


An  Apparition  279 

girl  whom  she  had  become  in  actuality.  He  heard  her  un 
lock  her  door,  and  enter;  and  he  said  to  himself  that  his 
refuge  was  spoiled — he  would  have  to  find  another  place  to 
work  in.  ... 

It  was  true,  what  Rose-Ann  had  said;  he  cared  nothing 
for  people— only  for  ideas  .  .  .  and  dreams.  He  cared  for 
his  dream  of  Phyllis.  He  was  sorry  to  lose  that. 

Well — he  would  have  to  see  her. 

He  heard  her  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  her  room; 
her  light  firm  step  sounded  clearly  through  the  door  which 
separated  their  two  rooms.  She  paused,  walked  the  length 
of  the  room,  and  paused  again.  She  was  standing  just  on 
the  other  side  of  that  door.  .  .  . 

He  went  over  to  that  door  and  knocked. 


XLIII.  Nocturne 


THE  next  moment  he  called  himself  a  fool  for  going 
about  it  in  this  way ;  but  he  might  as  well  go  through 
with  it  now.     He  knocked  again,  more  loudly,  and 
called  out  her  name,  cheerfully.     "Phyllis?" 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  in  a  startled,  questioning  voice. 

He  called  his  own  name.  "I've  just  discovered  we  are 
fellow-lodgers !"  he  added.  "Can  I  see  you  ?" 

She  fumbled  with  the  lock,  and  opened  the  door.  She 
had  just  taken  off  her  hat  and  coat,  and  she  was  wearing  a 
black  dress  that  made  her  seem  pale.  She  looked  older ;  her 
face  was  not  so  untroubledly  serene  as  he  had  remembered 
it.  But  the  sight  of  her  gave  him  just  such  a  momentary 
unreasonable  panic  as  on  that  winter  night  when  Give  had 
brought  her  into  the  room  at  Woods  Point.  She  seemed 
again  the  impossible  person  of  his  secret  dreams.  .  .  .  And 
then  the  illusion  vanished.  She  was  only — dive's  girl- 
problem. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

They  both  asked  the  question  of  each  other  at  once,  and 
then  both  laughed.  "You  first,"  said  Phyllis. 

"I'm  using  this  as  a  work-room  occasionally,"  he  ex 
plained. 

"Really!"  She  looked  past  him  into  his  room.  "Right 
next  to  mine.  How  odd!  .  .  .  You  and  Rose-Ann  haven't 
separated  or  anything,  have  you?" 

"Why,  no!"   he  laughed.     "Why  should  you  think—?" 

"It's  absurd,  isn't  it?  But  that  was  what  came  into  my 
head.  I'm  glad  it  isn't  so.  ...  You  work  there?  I  see!" 

"And  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Me  ?     I've  run  away  at  last !" 

280 


Nocturne  281 

"I  heard  something  about  it.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  run  away — from  school — from  home — from  every 
thing  !  And  come  to  Chicago  to  make  my  living.  Even 
Clive  didn't  know.  I've  been  here  three  weeks,  and  I've  a 
real  job.  Not  much  of  a  one;  just  working  on  a  trade- 
journal.  It  pays  for  this  room,  and  my  meals — and  I'm 
glad  I've  taken  the  plunge.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  curious,  our  being 
neighbours  like  this!  .  .  .  But  come  in!" 

They  were  still  standing  there,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
doorsill.  He  entered,  and  looked  about  her  room.  It  was 
almost  as  bare  as  his  own,  but  larger.  A  cot,  with  her  coat 
and  hat  tossed  upon  it,  a  bureau,  a  writing  table,  an  old 
trunk,  and  two  chairs,  both  of  them  much  repaired  and  one 
of  them  still  rickety,  were  its  furnishings. 

"Not  much  to  look  at,  is  it?"  she  said.  "But  wait !  Some 
day  I  shall  have  a  grand  studio  like  yours !"  She  sat  down 
on  the  cot,  and  motioned  him  to  draw  up  the  less  rickety 
chair.  "The  first  day  I  was  in  town  I  slunk  past  your 
studio  and  peeped  in.  Some  one  was  going  out  the  door, 
and  I  got  a  glimpse  of  the  inside." 

"Why  in  the  world  didn't  you  come  in  and  see  us?" 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't 
remember  me.  And  besides,  I  wanted  to  get  established 
before  I  let  any  of  my  friends  know — even  Clive.  I  wanted 
to  prove  that  I  could  do  something  by  myself."  A  curious 
smile  lit  her  face  as  she  added :  "It  annoys  Clive  that  I 
should  have  got  a  job  without  his  help !" 

"But  why?"  he  wondered.  He  remembered  what  Clive 
had  once  said  about  the  "battle"  between  himself  and  Phyllis. 
It  had  seemed  absurd  at  the  time.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  reply,  and  so  he  asked :  "Why  shouldn't  you 
be  willing  to  be  helped  by  your  friends?" 

"Well — one  sometimes  isn't,"   she  said  defensively. 

All  at  once  he  felt  the  pathetic  helplessness  behind  her 
masquerade  of  independence.  And,  moved  by  an  odd  im 
pulse,  he  wanted  to  make  her  admit  the  truth  to  him. 

"Is  it  just  because  it's  Clive?"  he  asked. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  coldly  as  if  about  to 


282  The  Briary-Bush 

rebuke  his  presumption,  and  then  looked  down  and  said: 
"I  suppose  so.  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  him,"  he  said  bluntly. 

She  laughed. 

"But  aren't  you  ?"  he  insisted. 

"What  a  question !"  she  retorted.  "Are  I  or  aren't  I  ?  You 
talk  like  my  mother!  .  .  .  How  do  I  know?" 

"And  you  talk  like  Clive !"  he  said. 

"Probably  I  learned  it  from  him.  .  .  .  I've  learned  'most 
everything  I  know  from  him." 

"You're  an  odd  girl,"  he  told  her. 

"So  Clive  says.  .  .  .  You're  very  like  Clive  yourself,  do 
you  know?" 

"I  wish  I  were  more  like  him,  in  some  ways ;  but  in  other 
respects — 

"Yes — you're  very  much  like  him.     Only — more  so  !J5< 

"What  do  you  mean?     You  rather  alarm  me." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  alarmed.  My  meaning  is  very 
flattering.  I  think  a  lot  of  Clive !" 

"Then  why  do  you  run  away  from  him?"  Felix  demanded. 

"Is  coming  to  Chicago  running  away  from  him?" 

"He  wanted  you  to  come  to  Chicago  three  years  ago— 
didn't  he?" 

"Yes,  but—  Oh,  it's  very  involved.  Are  you  really 
interested?  I'm  not  sure  that  I  understand  it  myself." 

He  was  quite  sure  that  she  wanted  to  tell  him  the  whole 
story.  And  he  wanted  to  hear  it. 

"I'm  very  much  interested,"  he  said.  "And  perhaps,"  he 
hazarded,  "—perhaps  I  could  help  you  to  understand." 

"I  wish  you  could.  ...  I  don't  know  where  to  begin." 

Yes she  did  want  to  tell  him.  And  it  would  be  interest 
ing  to  know  the  truth  about  Clive  and  Phyllis — at  last! 

"Begin  with  yourself — before  Clive  came  along,"  he 
commanded. 

"Oh— you  think  he  changed  me?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it." 

"Well perhaps.     Oh,  of  course  I  was  a  romantic  little 


Nocturne  283 

goose  before  he  came  along.  And  yet — that  isn't  so,  either. 
...  I  was  hard-headed,  in  a  way.  It  was  I  who  made  my 
father  go  into  the  taxi  business  and  save  the  family  from 
complete  poverty.  I  did  know  some  things — better  than  my 
father." 

"I've  wondered  about  your  folks,"  he  said.  "Tell  me 
about  your  father." 

"He  wanted  to  be  a  farmer.  He  wanted  to  go  out  west 
and  take  up  government  land,  but  he  didn't  have  the  nerve. 
And  his  own  farm  was  no  good.  He  slaved  himself  on  it 
year  after  year  and  was  always  in  debt.  Then  he  quit  and 
took  a  job  on  the  railroad.  But  he  doesn't  like  machinery; 
curious,  he'd  rather  dig  in  the  ground  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  But  what  was  the  use?  We  actually  didn't 
have  enough  money  to  buy  shoes.  I  quit  school  and  clerked 
in  Wilson's  store,  so  I  could  have  decent  clothes.  And  I 
sewed  for  my  sisters,  so  as  not  to  be  ashamed  of  the  way 
they  looked.  I  used  to  hate  my  father — and  my  mother,  too, 
for  never  complaining,  for  always  putting  up  with  things. 
'Your  father  is  a  good  man,  Phyllis,'  she  would  say.  'He 
doesn't  drink,  or  play  cards,  and  he's  never  used  an  unkind 
word  to  me  or  you  children.  And  he's  terribly  patient.' 
That's  it — he  was  so  terribly  patient!  If  he'd  been  a 
drunkard,  there  might  have  been  some  excuse.  .  .  .  Tell  me 
— does  all  this  bore  you  ?" 

"No,  it  doesn't  bore  me.     Go  on." 

"I  wanted  to  be  a  teacher.  .  .  .  Clive  thinks  I  went  off 
to  become  a  teacher  just  to  spite  him.  But  it  was  an  old 
ambition  of  mine.  I  wanted  to  put  the  family  on  its  feet — 
and  I  wanted  to  do  something  that  had  to  do  with  books. 
It's  silly,  isn't  it?  But  teaching  was  all  I  could  think  of. 
Only,  how  was  I  to  do  it  ?  I  kept  up  with  the  school  studies 
at  home,  nights,  besides  helping  mother  with  the  house  and 
making  clothes  for  Bess  and  Emmy.  I  got  one  of  the 
teachers  to  bring  me  a  copy  of  the  final  examination  ques 
tions,  and  I  wrote  out  my  answers  at  home.  I  did  it  fairly, 
too — and  he  marked  them  for  me." 


284  The  Briary-Bush 

"Who  was  'he'?" 

"The  teacher,  Mr.  Andrews — the  science  teacher.  He 
was  all  right.  He  lent  me  books,  and  talked  to  me." 

Felix  smiled  to  himself.  So  Clive  Bangs  had  not  been 
the  only  one  who  had  lent  books  and  talked  to  Phyllis! 
He  had  only  been  the  latest  one  to  minister  to  an  insatiable 
hunger  for  new  knowledge.  He  had  not,  as  he  so  egotis 
tically  thought,  changed  the  current  of  her  life;  or  perhaps 
he  had:  Phyllis'  story  would  show.  But  already  it  was  a 
different  personality  from  any  suggested  by  Clive's  remarks 
or  Felix's  own  dreaming,  that  began  to  appear. 

"Only — how  was  I  ever  to  get  to  school  ?  There  were  no 
boys  in  the  family — I  often  felt  as  though  I  were  the  man 
of  the  family — I  had  to  raise  some  money  myself.  ...  At 
last  I  thought  of  the  taxi  idea.  I  talked  father  into  it.  ... 
It  was  the  hardest  battle  I  ever  had." 

"How  old  were  you  then?" 

"Sixteen.  .  .  .  You  mustn't  think  my  father  was  a — a 
bad  father.  I  really  loved  him  very  much.  He  wanted  to 
take  care  of  his  family,  but  he  just  didn't  know  how.  I 
had  to  take  things  into  my  own  hands.  I  persuaded  him 
to  borrow  the  money  for  our  first  car.  That  year  we  paid 
for  it,  and  I  made  him  borrow  the  money  to  buy  another, 
and  let  me  run  it.  Well — we  made  lots  of  money,  and  now 
we've  five  cars — so  that's  all  right.  ...  I  don't  know  why 
I  got  off  the  track  and  told  you  all  this  stuff.  You  wanted 
to  know  about  me  and  Clive." 

"Yes,  then  Clive  came  along?" 

"He  had  been  there  all  the  time — only  he  never  saw  me. 
Why  should  he?  I  don't  think  he  ever  would  have  seen 
me,  if  one  night  when  I  was  driving  him  home  I  hadn't 
noticed  that  he  was  carrying  an  interesting-looking  book 
with  a  white  label.  I  glanced  at  it  rather  obviously.  He 
held  it  up,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  read  any  of  Bernard 
Shaw's  plays.  I  was  scared  to  death — I  had  wanted  to  talk 
to  him  for  two  years,  and  here  was  my  chance.  I  had  to 
make  good.  Of  course,  I'd  never  read  anything  of  Shaw's, 
but  what  did  that  matter?  It  was  my  chance  to  prove  to 


Nocturne  285 

him  that  I  was  worth  talking  to.  So  I  swallowed  hard,  and 
said,  yes,  I'd  read  everything  I  could  find  of  Shaw's.  I 
knew  if  he  asked  me  any  questions,  I  could  say,  no,  I  hadn't 
been  able  to  get  hold  of  that  yet.  .  .  .  Well,  it  worked. 
And  that  night — the  library  was  closed,  but  I  knew  the 
librarian  and  I  made  him  go  there  with  me  and  open  it  up 
long  enough  for  me  to  get  the  only  two  volumes  of  Shaw 
the  library  had.  I  read  one  of  them  that  night  and  the 
other  the  next  day.  I  liked  them,  too,  though  they  did  seem 
a  little  queer  to  me  at  the  very  first.  .  .  ." 

"What  were  they?"  Felix  asked. 

"The  'Three  Plays  for  Puritans/  and  'Man  and  Superman/ 
I  read  them  all,  prefaces,  appendixes  and  everything.  I 
said,  if  these  are  the  things  he  likes,  I  can  like  them  too, 
and  I  will !  I  got  a  liberal  education  out  of  those  two  books. 
I  was  a  different  person  when  I  saw  him  three  days  later 
and  he  lent  me  'Cashel  Byron's  Profession.'  .  .  .  And  yet  I 
wasn't,  either.  I  told  you  that  I  was  a  romantic  little  goose. 
.  .  .  If  there's  one  thing  I  have  learned,  it's — not  to  be 
ashamed  to  tell  anything.  So  I  don't  mind  telling  you  what 
a  little  fool  I  was.  Think!  I  had  just  stocked  my  brain 
full  of  Bernard  Shaw,  and  yet — it  is  hard  to  tell — I  was 
carrying  on  a  romantic  fairy-tale  at  the  same  time,  with 
Give  as  the  hero-prince !  I  thought — in  spite  of  everything, 
you  see,  I  was  only  a  silly  girl — that  he  wanted  to  marry 
me.  I  even  commenced  secretly  to  sew  things,  to  get  my 
clothes  ready  for  the  wedding.  .  .  .  And  at  the  same  time — 
It's  queer — but  I  think  I  should  have  despised  him  if  he 
had  wanted  to  marry  me!  ...  My  mother  warned  me 
against  him.  Poor  dear  father,  he  didn't  even  know  what 
was  going  on.  But  mother  was  very  much  worried.  Well ! 
she  needn't  have  been.  She  was  just  as  much  mistaken 
about  Clive's  intentions  as  I  was!  All  he  wanted  was  to 
modernize  me.  Heavens!  the  trouble  we  took,  the  stealthy 
meetings,  the  secret  rendezvous — to  discuss  the  Life  Force ! 
It's  really  funny!" 

"I  don't  think  it's  so  funny,"  Felix  said  soberly. 

"No,"  said  Phyllis,  "the  worst  of  it  is,  he  did  modernize 


286  The  Briary-Bush 

me.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  complain — but  somehow  I 
resent  his  power  over  me.  He's  always  told  me  what  to 
do;  and  in  the  end  I've  always  done  it.  But  I've  hated 
to.  He  told  me  to  go  to  Chicago  three  years  ago.  He  told 
me  that  what  I  needed  was  work,  and  adventure,  and  love. 
And  yet,  for  three  years  I  tried  to  work  out  some  silly  plan 
of  my  own.  I  didn't  want  to  admit  that  he  was  right." 

"Are  you  sure  that  he  is  right?"  Felix  asked. 

"Of  course?  Aren't  you?  Work — adventure — love? 
Why  not?  This  is  the  twentieth  century — and  I'm  twenty- 
two  years  old.  Why  shouldn't  I  have  all  those  things?" 

"No  reason — if  you  really  want  them.     But — " 

"Yes?" 

"Well—" 

"You  aren't  going  to  tell  me  that  woman's  place  is  in  the 
home,  and  that  I  ought  to  get  married  ?  That  would  sound 
strange,  coming  from  you !" 

"Why?     I  am  married." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  You're  lucky,"  she  said  looking  at  him, 
sombrely. 

"I  know  I  am.     But  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Your  marriage.     You're  living  your  theories." 

Felix  smiled.  "What  theories  do  you  mean  ?  You  didn't 
take  seriously  everything  Clive  said  at  our  wedding,  did 
you?" 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  "Clive  wrote  me  you  were 
living  up  to  your  theories — you  and  Rose-Ann.  Isn't  it 
true?" 

"Oh— that." 

He  knew  that  she  meant  the  Dorothy  episode.  Rose-Ann 
had  told  Clive  about  it,  and  Clive  had  used  the  anecdote 
more  than  once  to  point  a  modernistic  moral.  Phyllis  was 
not  the  only  young  person  who  had  heard  strange  tales  of 
this  wonderful  "free"  marriage. 

Phyllis's  eyes  questioned  him  fiercely,  anxiously. 

"I  see  you've  heard  the  story,"  he  said.  "Well,  something 
of  that  sort  did  happen.  But — " 

"So  it's  true!"     She  said  it  triumphantly.     "I'm  so  tired 


Nocturne  287 

of  all  this  talk  that  never  gets  anywhere.  You  don't  know 
how  much  you  and  Rose-Ann  have  meant  to  me — your 
marriage.  It  convinced  me  that  there  was  something  to 
modernism  after  all." 

"So  you  doubted  it— in  spite  of  all  Give's  talk?" 

"Yes — I  did.  Because  it  was  just  talk.  .  .  .  Look  at  me ! 
Do  you  doubt  that  I  wanted  everything  Clive  told  me  about  ? 
work — adventure — love.  .  .  .  I've  wanted  them  all  along. 
If  Clive  had  only  said,  'Come  with  me  to  Chicago — ' !" 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  left  it  to  me  to  decide.  .  .  .  That  was  fair  enough. 
If  I  didn't  have  sense  enough  to  decide  by  myself — .  Only, 
I  think  he  should  have  dropped  me,  let  me  alone.  He's 
been  too  patient.  I've  lost  my  respect  for  him." 

"What  do  you  want  him  to  do — make  you  marry  him?" 

"Not  now.  Three  years  ago  I  was  foolish  enough  to 
believe  in  marriage.  I  couldn't  marry  anybody  now — least 
of  all  Clive:  the  man  who  taught  me  not  to  believe  in 
marriage !" 

"But  you  believe  in — Rose-Ann's  and  my  marriage,  don't 
you  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  There  was  a  wealth  of  devoutness  in  her 
utterance,  and  her  eyes  opened  wide  as  if  in  astonishment 
at  her  belief  being  questioned.  "Of  course.  But  that's 
different.  .  .  .  You  two,"  she  said,  a  little  sadly,  "are  the 
only  people  in  the  world  that  I  do  believe  in, — you  and  Rose- 
Ann.  If  you  went  back  on  me,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  making 
a  mistake  in  becoming  a  modern  woman,  why—  She 
laughed,  and  added,  "No  doubt  my  modernism  seems  ridic 
ulous  to  you.  I  admit  that  it's  only  talk,  so  far !  I — why, 
I  don't  even  smoke  cigarettes.  Clive  has  been  to  immense 
pains  to  educate  my  mind ;  but  my  habits  are  still  those  of— 
of  my  middle-western  childhood.  It's  going  to  be  strange. 
...  I  am  a  queer  person.  Restless,  discontented,  fed  up 
on  radical  theories  for  three  years.  ...  Do  I  seem  ridic 
ulous  to  you?" 

"No,"   Felix  said  gravely.     "Not  ridiculous."     He  hes- 


288  The  Briary-Bush 

itated.  .  .  .  There  were  things  he  wanted  to  say  to  her ;  but 
he  would  be  ridiculous,  saying  those  things.  And  yet  he 
did  want  to  say  them.  .  .  .  Her  hand  lay  near  him  on  the 
couch.  He  covered  it  with  his  own.  The  touch  gave  him 
the  encouragement  he  needed;  but  when  he  spoke  it  was  in 
unpremeditated  words. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Phyllis,"  he  said. 


For  a  moment  her  flippant  hardness  disappeared.  She 
became  for  a  moment,  in  response  to  his  tone,  the  girl  he 
had  first  known — the  real  person,  simple  and  genuine,  that 
still  underlay  all  her  pretences.  .  .  .  She  let  her  hand  rest 
in  his  for  a  moment,  and  then  withdrew  it.  "Why  sorry  ?" 
she  asked  quietly.  "I'm  sorry  for  myself ;  but  why  should 
you  be  sorry  for  me,  Felix?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Felix  said.  "But— I  like  you,  and  I 
want  you  to  be  happy.  And  Clive's  modernism  doesn't 
seem  to  me  to  be  what  you  want." 

She  frowned  at  him.     "What  do  I  want?"  she  asked. 

"Not  a  hectic,  experimental  kind  of  existence,"  he  said. 

"I  don't?" 

"No.  Not  for  yourself.  You  may  want  to  be  that  sort 
of  person  to  please  Clive.  But  you  don't  want  it.  You 
want — I'll  tell  you  what  you  want."  He  spoke  confidently. 
"It's  very  simple.  You  want  a  husband,  and  children,  and 
a  home,  and  you  want  to  stay  there — you  want  to  be  made 
to  stay  there." 

She  stirred  restlessly,  and  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  he 
motioned  her  abruptly  to  keep  still,  and  went  on  author 
itatively.  "Oh,  don't  deny  it.  You  want  somebody  to 
take  you  in  charge — some  one  in  whom  you  really  believe, 
that  you  can  really  depend  upon,  somebody  who  can  boss 
the  job.  Don't  you!"  he  finished  rather  imperiously. 

She  smiled  at  him  quizzically,  and  then  said,  "Yes.  Maybe 
I  do.  How  did  you  guess?" 

"I  knew,"  he  said. 

"Well,    don't   tell   anybody   that   I'm   such   a   ridiculous 


Nocturne  289 

person !"  she  said.  And  suddenly  she  slipped  down  from  the 
bed  to  the  floor,  and  put  her  arm  across  his  knees,  and 
laid  her  head  against  it,  without  speaking.  After  a  while 
she  looked  up,  and  asked  timidly,  "Do  you  mind?  I  wanted 


290  The  Briary-Bush 


Felix  caressed  her  shoulder  with  his  hand,  lightly — 
feeling  in  some  queer  way  that  she  was  a  child  and  that  he 
was  some  infinitely  older  and  wiser  person. 

They  sat  there  a  long  time,  she  with  her  head  resting 
against  his  knee,  and  he  with  his  hand  touching  her  shoulder. 
At  last  she  took  his  other  hand  and  held  it  against  her  face, 
with  an  apparently  unconscious  and  instinctive  gesture,  as 
if  she  were  in  truth  a  child.  He  had  a  deep  conviction  that 
this  was  not  love-making  in  any  ordinary  sense.  There  was 
some  blessed  healing  in  these  contacts  for  them  both — that 
was  all. 

Yes — for  him,  too.  For  as  he  bent  over  her,  with  his 
hand  nourished  against  her  cheek,  he  seemed  to  be  finding 
rest,  finding  some  quiet  peace  which  his  spirit  needed.  This 
touch  was  enough.  It  was  balm  for  a  weariness  of  which 
he  had  not  been  aware.  It  was  rest,  it  was  peace,  it  was 
his  dream  of  her  come  true. 

She  lifted  her  head  at  last,  like  some  one  who  has  waked 
from  a  refreshing  sleep.  "You  are  very  good  to  me,"  she 
said,  and  rose  up. 

He  stood  up,  suddenly  conscious  of  how  long  they  had 
been  together,  and  wondered  what  time  it  was. 

She  glanced  at  her  clock  on  the  mantel,  and  his  look 
followed  hers.  It  was  three  o'clock. 

"Gracious !"  she  whispered. 

He  started  to  walk  across  the  floor,  and  a  board  creaked ; 
he  finished  the  journey  to  his  door  on  tiptoe,  half  ashamed 
and  angry  at  taking  such  a  precaution.  It  gave  an  air  of 
the  illicit  to  the  occasion.  At  the  door  he  turned. 

She  had  remained  standing  beside  his  chair.  He  could 
not  shake  hands  with  her  without  going  back.  But  why 
was  he  hurrying  away  in  such  a  frightened  manner,  as  if 
he  had  done  something  wrong?  He  recrossed  the  room 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good  night,  Phyllis." 

"Good  night,  Felix  Fay." 


Nocturne  291 

He  walked  boldly  back  to  his  own  room,  and  closed  the 
door  with  a  defiant  bang. 

3 

It  had  been  very  beautiful.  .  .  .  And  why,  now,  must  it 
be  so  awkward,  the  task  of  finding  a  place  for  this  beauty 
in  his  ordinary  life? 

Explanations!  .  .  . 

Rose-Ann  would  understand,  of  course.  But,  even  so, 
the  telling  of  it  was  difficult.  He  could  think  of  no  words 
to  convey  the  simplicity  and  naturalness  of  the  incident. 

It  was  all  very  well  to  talk  of  telling  the  truth  to  one's 
beloved;  but  the  truth  was  not  such  an  easy  thing  to 
tell!  .  .  . 

So  Felix  was  reflecting,  as  he  put  on  his  coat  and  hat  to 
go  home,  when  there  was  a  knock  on  the  door  he  had 
banged  shut,  and  Phyllis  entered. 

"I  want  a  breath  of  fresh  air,"  she  said.  "I'll  walk 
over  to  your  place  with  you  if  you  don't  mind." 


XLIV.  Aubade 


THERE'S  a  light  burning  in  your  studio,"  she  said 
as  they  turned  the  corner.     They  had  been  silent 
all  the  way,  Phyllis  happy  to  be  out  in  the  moon 
light,  and  Felix  rather  moodily  uneasy  at  this  prolongation 
of  an  incident  that  had  already  had  its  due  ending. 

"Yes,  Rose-Ann  is  still  up/'  he  said. 

He  unlocked  the  door,  and  Phyllis  ran  in  eagerly.  Rose- 
Ann  sprang  up  from  the  table  where  she  had  been  working 
over  some  magazine  proofs. 

"Phyllis !"  she  cried,  and  the  two  girls  embraced  like  old 
friends  long  parted. 

"I've  been  keeping  Felix  up,  listening  to  the  story  of 
my  life,"  said  Phyllis. 

"Is  it  late?  I've  been  fixing  up  the  dummy  of  the 
Motion  Picture  World.  I'm  just  finished.  I  have  to  get 
it  down  at  the  printer's  at  eight  in  the  morning."  She 
went  over  to  the  table,  and  swept  the  scattered  proofs 
into  a  portfolio,  laying  the  dummy  upon  them,  and  tying 
the  strings.  "How  about  some  coffee  ?  Or  are  you  sleepy  ?" 
"Wide  awake!"  said  Phyllis.  "It's  so  nice  to  find  you  up. 
I  did  want  to  see  your  studio." 

"Felix,  will  you  make  some  coffee?" 

Felix  came  back  in  a  moment  and  sadly  reported  that  the 
coffee  was  "all  gone!" 

"Oh,  I  forgot — I  used  the  last  of  it  this  evening.  .  .  . 
What  a  pity!" 

Felix,  returning  into  their  presence  from  behind  the 
screen,  had  a  curious  sense  of  being  a  third,  an  intruder 
into  a  friendly  intimacy.  He  had  had,  in  the  very  moment 
of  their  meeting,  a  startled*  impression  of  their  being 
the  oldest  friends  each  other  had,  far  more  deeply  acquainted 

292 


Aubade  293 

with  each  other  than  he  with  either  of  them!  And  now, 
in  the  mere  two  minutes  in  which  he  had  been  out  of  their 
sight  searching  for  coffee,  they  had  begun  to  talk  for 
all  the  world  like  two  old  schoolmates  who  had,  after  a 
long  separation,  much  to  tell  each  other.  His  entrance 
had,  or  so  it  seemed  to  him,  the  effect  of  an  interruption. 

"I'll  look  again,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "There  may  be  some 
left  of  that  G.  Washington  coffee.  I  think  there  is."  And 
he  went  behind  the  screen  again. 

There  was  no  "G.  Washington  coffee."  He  found  the 
empty  can  at  once.  But  he  sat  down  on  the  bed,  grinning 
sheepishly  at  himself,  instead  of  returning.  He  could  hear 
them  out  there  talking  in  the  swift,  breathless,  low  tones  of 
confidential  feminine  narrative.  Now  Phyllis's  voice  ceased 
on  a  note  of  inquiry,  and  Rose-Ann  spoke  without  inter 
ruption  to  a  hushed  listener.  Her  voice  became  louder, 
and  there  was  a  ring  of  pride  in  it.  Both  girls  suddenly 
laughed  and  then  Rose-Ann  went  on  talking.  .  .  . 

What  on  earth  could  they  be  talking  about  ?  Felix  found 
himself  listening  curiously,  with  decidedly  the  feeling  of 
an  eavesdropper,  but  he  could  distinguish  only  an  unrevealing 
word  or  two  now  and  then,  "dive's  house,"  he  heard,  and 
after  a  while,  "scissors,"  followed  by  another  laugh;  but 
that  was  all. 

If  someone  had  assured  him,  beforehand,  that  Rose- Ann, 
in  spite  of  what  had  seemed  to  him  an  ungenerous  hostility 
to  Phyllis,  would  have  instantly  taken  her  to  her  bosom 
like  this,  he  would  have  been  pleased;  but  now,  with  that 
fact  before  him,  he  was  not  so  much  pleased  as  astonished. 
He  was  even  a  little  annoyed. 

Why  should  he  be  annoyed?  It  was  doubtless  natural 
enough  for  these  two  girls  to  want  to  talk  together.  Phyllis's 
having  been  at  Rose-Ann's  wedding  constituted  a  bond 
between  them.  .  .  .  Arid  Felix  remembered  that  when  they 
had  first  met  they  had  seemed  to  like  each  other  at  once.  He 
was  behaving  rather  ridiculously  in  staying  out  here;  they 
could  talk  just  as  well  in  his  presence. 

He  returned  to  them  and  again  reported   failure.     And 


294  The  Briary-Bush 

once  more,  as  he  entered,  he  had  the  feeling  of  being  an 
intruder.  This  time  it  was  as  if  they  had  forgotten  his 
existence,  and  were  rather  startled  to  find  him  there,  and 
puzzled  for  a  moment  to  know  how  to  get  rid  of  him ! 

"Oh!"  said  Rose-Ann  to  his  news  of  the  total  absence  of 
any  coffee  whatever. 

"I've  some  coffee  over  at  my  place,"  said  Phyllis. 
"Won't  you  come  over  there?  I'd  like  to  show  you  my 
room.  And  we  can  talk." 

Distinctly  her  glance  at  him  told  Felix  that  he  was  not 
wanted  along. 

Rose-Ann  jumped  up.  "Let's !"  she  said.  And  then  to 
Felix,  "you  needn't  bother  to  come  with  us.  Phyllis  and  I 
want  to  talk." 

"All  right!"  he  said,  smiling.  But  as  he  saw  them  de 
part  together  out  of  the  door  of  the  studio  into  the  moon 
light,  he  had  an  odd  feeling  of  being  a  little  boy  left  out 
of  the  conversation  of  his  elders.  .  .  .  And  perhaps,  too, 
there  was  a  strange  feeling  of  jealous  unease. 


He  took  a  book,  went  to  bed,  and  tried  to  read  himself 
to  sleep.  But  at  six  o'clock  he  was  still  awake,  and  Rose- 
Ann  had  not  returned.  At  seven  he  rose,  and  went — well, 
perhaps  not  exactly  to  look  for  her,  but  to  his  workroom. 

Through  the  inner  door  he  could  hear  their  voices,  in 
animated  conversation.  He  went  to  the  door,  flung  it  open, 
and  cried, 

"My  God,  are  you  girls  still  talking !" 

They  looked  up,  startled,  and  then  laughed.  "What  time 
is  it?"  asked  Rose-Ann.  "I've  been  telling  Phyllis  the 
history  of  our  marriage.  .  .  .  " 

So  that  was  what  they  were  talking  about !  Half-appeased, 
at  having  been  after  all  included  in  the  conversation,  he 
looked  at  his  watch.  "Seven-thirty,"  he  said. 

"I  have  to  have  my  dummy  at  the  printer's  at  eight," 
said  Rose-Ann.  "I  wonder  if  you  will  take  it  there  for 


Aubade  295 

me,  Felix,  while  I  take  a  bath.  And  we'll  all  meet  at 
breakfast.  Clive  and  Phyllis  are  going  to  have  breakfast 
at  Henrici's,  and  we'll  join  them.  Will  you?" 

Felix  went  back  to  the  studio  for  the  dummy.  As  he 
went,  he  carried  in  his  mind  the  picture  he  had  seen  when  he 
opened  the  door  of  Phyllis's  room — Phyllis  sitting  on  the 
floor  at  Rose-Ann's  feet  precisely  as  a  few  hours  earlier 
she  had  sat  at  his,  with  what  must  have  been  the  same  wor 
shipful  expression  on  her  face  as  she  listened  to  Rose- 
Ann's  words.  Rose-Ann  had  also  probably  been  deciding 
her  young  destinies  for  her. 

Felix  laughed.     It  was  certainly  odd  enough! 

Yes,  but  what  ideas  had  Rose-Ann  been  putting  into  her 
head?  What  kind  of  story  had  Rose- Ann  told  her  about 
their  marriage?  Had  Rose- Ann  talked  about  their  mutual 
"freedom"'?  That  theme  would  have  accounted  for  Phyllis's 
rapt  and  devout  attention.  It  was  what  Phyllis  wanted  to 
hear,  what  she  wanted  to  believe — that  love  could  be  like 
that! 

Anyway,  he  was  glad  that  Phyllis  and  Rose-Ann  were 
friends. 


The  four  of  them  breakfasted  together  at  Henrici's,  and 
at  noon  Phyllis  was  inducted  into  the  magic  circle  of  their 
mid-day  comradeship  at  the  corner  table  in  the  little  Hun 
garian  restaurant;  and  that  afternoon  they  took  the  train 
for  Woods  Point — whither  Phyllis  had  to  go  as  it  were  in 
disguise,  or  at  least  stealthily,  for  her  family  must  not 
know  that  she  was  spending  the  night  at  Clive's :  an  ironic 
precaution,  for  their  relations  were  still  as  vexatiously 
and  chastely  intellectual  as  they  had  been  in  the  earliest 
days  of  their  clandestine  meetings. 

•  In  spite  of  their  need  of  sleep — and  fortified  by  the 
thought  that  tomorrow  was  Sunday  and  they  could  sleep  as 
long  as  they  liked — they  sat  up  until  all  hours,  talking. 
It  was  like  a  reunion,  and  the  memory  of  their  first  meet 
ing  here  touched  it  with  romantic  suggestion.  The  promise 


296  The  Briary-Bush 

of  comradeship  which  had  been  implicit  in  that  first  meet 
ing,  obscured  at  the  time  by  the  anxieties  and  discomforts 
of  a  tribal  ceremonial,  had  now,  after  so  long  an  interval, 
come  true.  They  felt  that  they  had  discovered  each  other, 
to  a  new  extent,  in  this  new  grouping.  It  is  not  often  that 
two  couples  can  happily  coalesce  into  that  infinitely  fluid 
and  various  arrangement,  a  group  of  four.  But  it  had  quite 
unmistakably  and  thrillingly  happened! 


XLV.  Foursome 


THE  'conversational   permutations   and   combinations 
of  this  new  fourfold  intimacy  inevitably  threw  new 
light  for  each  upon  the  character  of  the  others,  and 
led  to  endless  discussions. 

"But  why,"  Felix  exclaimed  to  Rose-Ann,  after  an  even.- 
ing  spent  in  the  company  of  the  two  others,  "doesn't  Phyllis 
make  up  her  mind  about  Clive,  one  way  or  the  other.  Why 
should  she  keep  on  tormenting  him  this  way?" 

"Why  doesn't  Clive  make  up  his  own  mind?"  Rose-Ann 
retorted.  "It's  he  that's  torturing  her.  I  understand 
Phyllis's  attitude  perfectly." 

"We  both  seem  to  have  rather  changed  our  views  about 
them,"  he  observed.  "You  used  to  blame  Phyllis." 

"I  don't  any  more,"  said  Rose-Ann.     "I  blame  Clive." 

"For  what,  precisely?" 

"For  not  knowing  what  he  wants !" 

"He  wants  Phyllis.     That's  simple  enough." 

"No,  he  doesn't.  It  would  be  simple  enough  if  he  did. 
He  could  have  her  in  a  moment.  She's  crazy  about  him. 
She  wants  nothing  else  than  to  be  really  his  sweetheart." 

"Then  why  isn't  she?" 

"Because  he  won't  let  her!" 

"What  nonsense,  Rose-Ann !" 

"It's  perfectly  true.  I  was  going  to  tell  you;  while  you 
and  Clive  were  over  in  the  corner  tonight  talking  about  that 
novel  of  his,  she  was  explaining  to  me  what  she  was  angry 
at  him  about.  She  had  proposed  to  him  that  they  rent  an 
apartment  together  in  Chicago  this  fall." 

"And  he  refused?"     Felix  asked  incredulously. 

297 


298  The  Briary-Bush 

"Yes  .  .  .  unless  she  would  marry  him  first.  And  she 
wouldn't." 

"But  why  not?"    he  asked. 

"Don't  you  understand,  Felix?  .  .  .  Before,  when  they 
first  knew  each  other,  she  would  gladly  have  married  him — • 
but  he  wouldn't  ask  her.  He  wanted  her  to  be  a  'free- 
woman.'  And  now  that  she's  ready  to  be,  he  insists  on 
'protecting'  her  with  a  marriage.  Can't  you  see?  he  wants 
her  to  admit  that  she's  not  in  earnest,  that  she's  afraid.  .  .  . 
And  she  won't.  I  quite  agree  with  her !" 

"But  what  a  fuss  over  nothing,"  said  Felix. 

"Over  nothing  ?  Aren't  ideas  anything  ?  Isn't  pride  any 
thing  ?' 

"Not  in  comparison  with  happiness.  They've  been  making 
each  other  miserable  for  two  years  with  their  ideas,  and 
their  silly  pride.  The  important  thing  is  to  get  them — yes, 
damn  it ! — into  the  same  bed  together !" 

Rose-Ann  laughed.  "They've  tried  even  that.,  Felix !  and 
it  did  no  good." 

"What!" 

"No —  they  spent  the  night  arguing  about  whether  they 
really  loved  each  other!" 

Felix  groaned.  "I  never  heard  of  such  a  crazy  pair  in 
my  life!" 

"Yes,  it  was  utterly  ridiculous,"  Rose-Ann  agreed. 
"Phyllis  told  Give  she  was  perfectly  willing,  for  the  sake  of 
companionship,  to  become  his  mistress — but  he  wouldn't 
have  her  on  those  terms.  He  wanted  her  to  sa.y  she  loved 
him." 

"I  can''t  exactly  blame  him  "for  asking  that,"  said  Felix. 
"Why  shouldn't  she  say  it?— it  was  true!" 

"She  just  wasn't  sure;  I  can  understand  that,  Felix.  '  She 
wanted  to  find  out  whether  she  did  or  not.  And  if  he 
couldn't  be  sure  for  both  of  them —  You  see,  it  was  his 
cowardice,  not  hers." 

"Madness!"  said  Felix.  "Is  this  what  modern  love  has 
come  to!" 


Foursome  299 


Again,  Give  and  Felix  were  at  the  "Tavern,"  across  the 
street  from  the  Chronicle,  sitting  in  front  of  their  afternoon 
ale. 

"Phyllis,"  said  Give,  "talks  about  .nothing  but  you,  now 
adays — yOU  and  Rose-Ann.  I  gather  that  you  are  the  most 
wonderful  two  people  in  the  world,  with  the  possible  ex 
ception  of  Bernard  Shaw  and  Ellen  Key." 

"I  hear  much  more  extravagant  reports  than  that  about 
myself,"  said  Felix.  "Bernard  Shaw  isn't  in  it.  I  gather 
that  I  am  almost  as  wonderful  a  person  as  Give  Bangs!" 

Give  shook  his  head.  "I  am  a  deserted  altar,"  he  de 
clared,  with  mock  mourn  fulness.  "You  are  the  new 
divinity.  How  does  it  feel?" 

"It's — slightly   embarrassing  sometimes,"    said  Felix. 

Give  grinned.  "You  just  hate  it,  don't  you?  It  makes 
you  bored  to  be  adored !" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Felix.  "But  Phyllis  does  have  a 
disturbing  way,  when  we  are  alone  together,  of  seeming  to 
be  a — well,  a  child,  a  very  young  child  with  a  ...  a  beloved 
parent !" 

"Or  why  not  say,  a  worshipper  in  the  presence  of  a  god !" 
Give  laughed.  "You  find  it  embarrassing,  do  you?" 

"And  also  agreeable  in  a  curious  way !"  Felix  confessed. 
"I've  never  been  regarded  as  a  supernaturally  wise  being, 
before.  I  find  I  rather  like  it!" 

"I  know,"  said  Give.  "The  truth,  is,  it's  tremendously 
gratifying  to  one's  egotism.  It's  nice  to  be  a  god.  But  I 
fell  off  my  pedestal  early  in  the  game.  And  what  I'd  like 
to  know  is,  how  do  you  manage  to  stay  on  yours  so 
serenely  ?" 

"It  comes  naturally  to  me,  to  be  a  god,  I  expect,"  said 
Felix  modestly.  "I  was  probably  born  that  way.  I've  often 
been  told  I'm  not  human.  But  I  imagine  the  trouble  with 
you  was  that  you  made  love  to  her.  That  was  a  mistake. 
You  should  let  her  make  love  to  you." 


300  The  Briary-Bush 

"It  sounds  all  right,  Felix — not  to  make  love  to  her :  but 
do  you  really  find  it  so  terribly  easy?" 

"Oh,"  said  Felix,  "I  just  keep  in  mind  that  I  am  sup 
posed  to  be  calm,  benignant,  Olympian  intelligence!  And 
really,  you  know,  there's  nothing  in  the  world  less  conducive 
to  romance.  A  gesture  betraying  anything  more  than  a 
condescending  paternal  affection  would  shatter  the  picture. 
An  importunate  lover  is  merely  human,  you  know,  Clive!" 

"So  I've  found !'  said  Clive. 

"But  it's  your  own  damned  fault.  I  mean  this  seriously, 
Clive.  You  taught  her  this  preposterous  evasiveness.  She's 
only  learned  your  characteristic  attitude — or  your  favourite 
trick,  whichever  it  is." 

"I  must  say  she's  learned  it  well.  ...  So  you  think  it's 
all  a  mask.  And  what  do  you  imagine  is  underneath  ?"  Clive 
asked  carelessly. 

"I  don't  imagine — I  know,"'  Felix  said  earnestly,  thinking 
of  the  real  person  he  had  evoked  from  under  her  intel 
lectual  disguises  that  first  night  of  talk  in  her  room.  "Some 
thing  so  simple,  Clive,  that  you'd  never  believe  it." 

Clive  yawned.  "I  might  not  believe  it,  but  I  can  guess 
what  you're  about  to  say,  Felix :  a  Woman,  God  bless  her, 
with  a  capital  W!  .  .  .  Come  on,  Felix,  you've  reached 
the  maudlin  stage ;  let's  go  back  to  the  office." 

3 

"Phyllis,"  said  Give  to  Rose-Ann  one  afternoon  at 
Field's  where  they  had  met  by  chance  at  the  stationery 
counter,  and  had  gone  together  to  the  tea-room  for  tea  and 
talk,  "complains  to  me  that  Felix  hasn't  been  to  his  work 
room  all  this  week ;  she  seems  to  think  he  is  idling  away  his 
time  in  the  society  of  his  wife,  when  he  ought  fo  be  writing 
plays  and  letting  her  make  coffee  for  him." 

Rose-Ann  laughed.  "Whether  it's  Phyllis's  coffee  or  not, 
he  does  seem  to  be  getting  some  good  work  done.  I  really 
like  that  new  play." 

'"The  Dryad'?  Aj  loVely  little  thing.  Why  don't 
you  make  him  send  it  to  Gregory  Storm?" 


Foursome  301 

Gregory  Storm  was  an  enthusiast  who  was  organizing 
a  company  of  amateurs  to  give  plays  by  Schnitzler  and 
Wedekind  and  other  moderns,  and  Felix  had  vainly  been 
urged  by  Give  to  submit  some  of  his  one-act  plays  to 
them. 

"I'm  not  going  to  'make'  Felix  do  anything,"  Rose-Ann 
said  impatiently.  "Make  him  yourself,  if  you  want  him 
to !  I  won't  manage  his  career  for  him." 

"Afraid  he'll  blame  you  if  it  fails?"  Clive  asked 
maliciously. 

"No— afraid  he'll  blame  me  if  it  succeeds !"  she  laughed. 

"You're  right,"  said  Clive.  "I  never  saw  any  one  so 
afraid  of  success." 

"Oh,  it's  not  success  he's  afraid  of.  It's  rather,  I  think, 
that  he's  afraid  of  enjoying  himself !  You  know,  Clive, 
he  really  is  a  Puritan!" 

"Harsh  words,  Mrs.  Fay!  On  what  grounds  do  you 
accuse  Felix  of  the  horrid  crime  of  Puritanism?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean,  Clive!  You 
were  saying  that  Felix  hadn't  been  to  his  work-room  this 
week.  And  you  know  why.  It's  because  he's  afraid  of 
Phyllis.  Isn't  it  absurd!" 

"Absurd?  Not  at  all!  I'm  very  much  afraid  of  her, 
myself!" 

"Well,  I'm  not!  Felix  ought  to  know  that  I'm  just  as 
fond  of  Phyllis  as  he  is,  and  that  I  can  perfectly 
well  understand  how  nice  it  is  to  have  her  around.  I  like 
to  have  her  make  coffee  for  me,  and  sit  at  my  feet.  And 
suppose  he  did  kiss  her — she's  very  kissable;  I  wish  he 
would,  and  get  over  being  afraid  of  her." 

"No  use,  Rose- Ann;  he  never  will.  And  what's  worse, 
she  never  will,  either.  She's  just  as  much  afraid  of  him 
as  he  is  of  her.  I'm  afraid  theirs  is  a  hopeless  passion!" 

They  both  commenced  to  laugh  at  the  absurdity  of  it  all. 

4 

Phyllis  and  Clive  had  quarrelled  again,  and  Phyllis  felt  in 
need  of  encouragement  in  her  Clive-less  way  of  life.  She 


302  The  Briary-Bush 

leaned  on  Rose-Ann  for  philosophic  guidance,  and  the  two 
girls  spent  many  evenings  together  in  the  studio  ;  while  Felix, 
without  the  sustenance  of  Phyllis's  coffee,  worked  at  revising 
"The  Dryad,"  which  he  had  decided  to  submit  to  Gregory 
Storm.  But  one  evening  Phyllis  came  in  disconsolately,  and 
said  to  Felix : 

"I've  been  to  the  studio  and  Rose-Ann  isn't  there!" 

"She's  at  the  printer's,"  said  Felix,  "reading  page-proof." 
He  pushed  back  his  manuscript.  "Do  you  want  to  make  me 
some — 

"Coffee?  No,"  said  Phyllis,  "but  you  can  take  me  out  and 
buy  me  a  cocktail  or  something;  and — and  give  me  some 
spiritual  guidance.  I  need  it!" 

They  went  to  a  quiet  restaurant  in  the  Loop  which  Give 
had  discovered,  a  foreign-looking  place  where  people  sat  .for 
hours  over  one  drink :  a  place  to  talk.  It  was  almost  empty 
at  this  hour.  A  table  across  the  room  was  occupied  by  an 
elderly  Swede  or  Dane,  who  sat  moodily  sipping  a  liqueur. 

"What,"  Phyllis  demanded,  fingering  the  stem  of  her  glass, 
"shall  I  do— I  mean,  with  my  life.  Tell  me,  Felix !" 

"If  I  tell  you,  will  you  do  it?"  he  demanded. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment.     "Yes — I  will !" 

"Marry!" 

"Oh — I  might  have  known  you  would  say  that."  She 
sipped  her  cocktail  disappointedly.  "I  could  have  got  that 
advice  from  St.  Paul !" 

"I  suppose  you  prefer  to  take  Walter  Pater's  advice,"  he 
said  laughingly. 

"What  is  that?'" 

"Burn  always  with  a  hard,  gem-like  flame!  But,  no — 
St.  Paul  is  right :  it  is  better  to  marry !" 

"Don't  tease  me,  Felix.     I'm  in  earnest." 

"So  am  I.     I've  told  you  what  to  do." 

"Marry — yes.     But  why?" 

"You'll  find  out  why,  my  dear.  'Open  your  mouth  and 
shut  your  eyes — '  " 

"You're  making  fun  of  me." 


Foursome  3°3 

"Not  a  bit." 

"Marry,  you  say?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I'm  not  to  ask  why?" 

"No." 

"Then— whom?" 

"A  man." 

"Any  man?" 

"Any  man  you  happen  to  like." 

"But  I  don't  happen  to  like  many  men." 

"Marry  one  of  those  fortunate  few." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  Give?" 

"He'll  do." 

"No,  he  won't." 

"Why  not?" 

"He  doesn't  believe  in  marriage.  And,  Felix,  one  of  the 
two  people  must  believe  in  a  marriage,  for  it  to  be  a 
marriage !" 

"Then  marry— Herbert  Bond." 

Herbert    Bond   was    a    staid   young   business   man   wit 
whom  Phyllis  had  flirted  outrageously  during  her  last  quarrel 
with  Clive. 

"You  said— any  man  I  happened  to  like"  she  protested. 

"What  kind  of  man  do  you  happen  to  like,  then?" 

"dive's  kind !" 

"I  suspected  as  much,"  he  said.  "Well,  then,  marry  one 
of  Clive's  kind— but  without  dive's  fatal  weakness." 

"Not  believing  in  marriage — is  that  his  fatal  weakness?" 

"Not  being  able  to  believe  in  anything !— in  marriage— in 
love—" 

"Or  in  me,"  said  Phyllis  sadly. 

Felix  was  silent.  ?> 

"Can  any  one— any  one  of  Clive's  kind— believe  in  me? 
she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  avoiding  her  eyes. 

.  "Are  you  sure?"  she  demanded,  leaning  across  the  table. 
"Quite  sure,"  he  said  quietly,  meeting  her  gaze. 


304  The  Briary-Bush 

She  looked  down.  "There's  only  one  other  man — of 
Clive's  kind— that  I  can  think  of,"  she  said.  "And  he's— 
out  of  my  reach." 

"Then  you  must  look  around  for  some  others,"  Felix 
said,  smiling. 

"Are  there  others?"  she  asked  incredulously. 

"Of  course.  It's  only  youth  and  ignorance  that  makes 
you  imagine  they  are  scarce.  You  don't  find  them  by  the 
dozens  in  little  country  towns,  of  course;  but  you  are  in 
Chicago,  now.  They  are  a  type  familiar  in  all  great  cities. 
How  long  have  you  been  here?  A  few  months!  And 
because  you've  only  found  two,  so  far — " 

She  sighed.     "You  think  there  may  be  a  third?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  you  think  I'll  find  him?" 

"If  you  look." 

"And  will  he  like  me,  do  you  think?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  did,  rather !" 

"Thank  you !"  she  said  mockingly.  "It  is  awfully  kind  of 
you  to  say  so!" 

At  this  moment  they  noticed  the  man  who  was  sitting 
across  the  room,  the  elderly  Scandinavian,  rising  and  bow 
ing  in  their  direction.  They  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and 
he  came  over  to  their  table,  and  bowed  again.  He  was 
drunk,  but  none  the  less  a  gentleman. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  speaking  quietly,  in  a  voice 
which  had  only  the  trace  of  an  alien  accent,  "for  the 
liberty  I  take  in  addressing  you.  But  I  have  been  sitting 
there,  seeing  you — seeing  your  happiness — and  it  gave  me 
such  pleasure  that  I  wanted  to  tell  you — to  thank  you.  Yes, 
to  thank  you !"  He  put  his  hand  on  his  breast. 

"I  felt  sure,"  he  said,  smiling  affectionately  at  them,  " — I 
said  to  myself,  these  two  happy  lovers  will  forgive  a  lonely 
old  man  for  telling  them  how  much  it  has  meant  only  to 
look  on  for  a  moment  at  their  happiness — their  young 
happiness !" 

He  bowed  again.  "Pardon  me,"  he  said,  smiling,  and 
again  bowed,  and  went  out  the  door. 


Foursome  305 

Felix  and  Phyllis  stared  after  him,  and  then  looked  at 
each  other,  and  burst  out  laughing. 

5 

But,  interesting  as  such  incidental  discussions  might  be, 
the  heart  of  their  fourfold  relationship  was  in  the  mid-day 
discussions  at  the  little  Hungarian  restaurant.  They  named 
it  the  Rendezvous.  There  they  talked  of  everything  in  the 
world  that  interested  them.  .  .  .  Two  people  talking  together 
tell  secrets ;  three  people  talking  are  a  conspiracy ;  but  four 
talkers  are  a  world.  They  told  the  truth ;  they  were  hard  in 
their  sincerity ;  and  nobody  flinched.  They  were  proud  of 
their  robustness.  The  theme  of  a  tete-a-tete  confession 
might  at  any  moment  be  flung  into  the  stark  publicity  of  that 
arena.  They  no  longer  had  secrets ;  or,  if  they  had,  it  was 
because  these  were  secrets  of  which  they  had  not  become 
aware. 

One  day  Give  said  laughingly,  "If  anything  ever  happens 
to  us,  of  the  sort  that  'can't'  be  discussed,  we'll  come  here, 
and  discuss  it  in  the  teeth  of  God  and  Nature !" 


They  had  planned  a  vacation  together,  but  Phyllis  and 
Clive  had  quarrelled  once  more,  and  Felix  and  Rose- Ann  set 
out  disappointedly  by  themselves  on  the  appointed  day, 
through  Gary  and  beyond  to  "the  Dunes."  But,  after  a  little 
having  pitched  their  tent  and  wandered  out  over  the  great 
wastes  of  sand  by  the  Lake,  they  were  conscious,  both  of 
them,  of  a  sense  of  release.  In  this  wilderness  of  sand 
hills,  they  seemed  to  be  a  million  miles  distant  from  all  the 
world  they  had  lived  in. 

"It's  good  to  be  away  from  people,"  said  Rose-Ann. 

"Even  from  Clive  and  Phyllis,"  said  Felix. 

Rose-Ann's  lips  pouted  mutinously.  "Especially  from 
Clive  and  Phyllis !"  she  said. 

"Yes.  .  .  ."•  Felix  said  hesitatingly.     "But— why?" 

"They're    family   all    over    again,"    said    Rose-Ann.     "I 


306  The  Briary-Bush 

thought  I  had  escaped  from  families.  .  .  .  But  one  never 
does." 

They  cooked  and  ate  and  slept  and  kissed  and  bathed  in 
the  lake,  and  lay  idly  on  the  sand.  They  did  not  discuss  any 
thing  all  week  long.  And  when  the  end  came,  and  it  was 
time  to  begin  the  miles-long  walk  back  to  the  nearest  street 
car  line,  they  stood  looking  back  lingeringly  at  the  peace 
they  were  leaving  behind. 

"It  would  be  nice  to  have  a  house  here,"  said  Rose-Ann. 

"Yes,  .  .  ."  said  Felix. 

"Only — the  lake  and  the  sand  are  sort  of  wasted,  with 
out  children  to  enjoy  them." 

A  burning  flash  of  memory  lighted  Felix's  mind,  and  he 
saw  himself  and  Rose- Ann,  the  summer  before,  walking  in 
a  park  under  great  trees  that  lifted  their  shivering  glooms 
to  the  sky.  .  .  .  "Everything  is  all  right  now,"  she  had 
said — now  that  they  were  to  have  no  child.  .  .  . 

He  felt,  again,  forces  that  he  did  not  understand  hurling 
themselves  on  his  heart,  crushing  and  stunning  it.  ...  He 
looked  at  her,  questioning  her  with  his  eyes. 

"I  hope,"  she  was  saying,  "that  Clive  and  Phyllis  make 
up  again — soon.  We  are  rather  dull  without  them,  aren't 
we?" 


XLVI.  The  Rehearsal 


COMING  back  to  town,  Felix  forced  himself  to  ask 
for  another  raise  in  salary.     It  was  less  because  he 
needed  the  money  than  because  he  wanted  to  assure 
himself  that   he  really  was  what  he   was   supposed  to   be 
— a  person  of   some  importance.     He  got   his   raise — one 
which  made  his  pay  now  commensurate  with  his  position  as 
dramatic  critic  of  a  great  newspaper. 

And  the  same  week  he  received  word  that  the  Artists' 
Theatre  had  accepted  his  play,  "The  Dryad."  It  was  to  be 
presented  on  the  opening  bill,  along  with  Schnitzler  and 

Wedekind ! 

The  acceptance  of  this  play,  taken  in  conjunction  with 
such  a  realistic  fact  as  his  raise  in  salary,  seemed  to  mean 
something;  he  wanted  to  believe  that  it  did — but  he  was 
rather  afraid  to  believe  it.  Instead,  he  began  to  tell  him 
self  that  in  sober  truth  it  meant  nothing  at  all. 

He  went  to  see  Gregory  Storm,  the  director,  and  was 
urged  to  attend  the  rehearsals.  "At  all  events,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "I  can  look  on  and  learn  something  practical  about 
the  mechanics  of  the  theatre." 


Rose-Ann  refused  to  accompany  him  to  the  rehearsal. 
"You  are  getting  into  a  terrible  habit  of  having  me  on  your 
mind  whenever  I'm  around,"  she  said.  "I've  noticed  it  when 
you  write;  I  bother  you.  I'd  rather  stay  away.  Besides, 
if  I  went,  I  should  want  to  be  in  it  myself !" 

He  went  alone,  reflecting  that  what  Rose-Ann  had  said 
was  true.  If  she  were  in  the  room  he  was  more  self- 

307 


308  The  Briary-Bush 

conscious,  by  reason  of  being  so  conscious  of  her.  He  must 
get  over  it.  ... 

He  found  the  players  assembled  on  their  tiny  stage,  hardly 
larger  than  the  one  in  the  children's  theatre  at  Community 
House.  The  house  would  seat  ninety-nine  people  only ;  one 
more  seat,  and  the  Artists'  Theatre  would  have  come  within 
the  theatre  ordinance  and  been  required  to  pay  a  theatre- 
tax.  Officially  then,  as  a  theatre,  it  did  not  exist.  The 
actors,  Felix  knew,  received  no  pay ;  they  were  lawyers  and 
doctors,  painters  and  poets,  business  men's  wives  and  ambi 
tious  young  women  just  out  of  school.  The  authors  of  the 
plays  would  receive  no  royalty;  the  income  from  seat-sales 
would  not  cover  the  rent  of  the  theatre  itself,  and  the 
deficit  would  have  to  be  made  up  by  enthusiasts.  ...  In 
a  manner  of  speaking,  it  wasn't  a  theatre  at  all — it  was  a 
dream. 

As  soon  as  he  entered  the  theatre  Felix  felt  its  irresistible 
dream  quality.  Upon  the  stage,  walking  up  and  down,  was 
the  slight,  striking,  dramatic  figure  of  Gregory  Storm — the 
dreamer  whose  dream  all  this  was,  the  man  who  still,  in  the 
years  of  maturity,  was  trying  to  achieve  a  childish,  absurd 
and  delightful  impossibility.  It  was  he  who  had  named  this 
enterprise  "The  Artists'  Theatre";  no  one  else  in  Chicago 
would  have  been  so  brave,  or  so  foolish.  .  .  . 

He  turned,  saw  Felix,  nodded  at  him,  and  clapped  his 
hands.  "Cast  of  The  Dryad' !"  he  cried. 

Three  men  and  a  girl  stood  up.  The  others  left  the  stage. 
Felix  clambered  up  over  the  place  where  the  footlights  would 
have  been  if  Gregory  Storm  had  not  passionately  disbelieved 
in  footlights. 

Gregory  Storm  shook  Felix's  hand  hastily,  and  turned  to 
the  others.  "This  is  the  author,  Mr.  Fay.  Miss  Macklin, 
Mr.  Ferguson,  Mr.  Whipple,  Mr.  Deedy."  Felix  bowed. 
"We'll  have  the  scenery."  He  clapped  his  hands  again. 
"Set  for  'The  Dryad' !" 

A  man  whom  Felix  recognized  as  an  enterprising  young 
architect  appeared  at  the  back,  struggling  with  a  tall  painted 
canvas  frame.  ...  As  the  set  was  put  together,  Felix  felt 


The  Rehearsal  309 

a  genuine  thrill  of  pleasure;  it  was  so  completely,  and  so 
startlingly,  in  the  spirit  of  his  play.  He  had  feared  that 
he  would  be  given  a  realistic  woodland  setting — and  that 
would  have  shown  up  the  utter  artifice  of  his  play.  But 
this  was  a  wood  as  some  artist  of  the  Yellow  Book  in  his 
gayest  mood  might  have  pictured  it — a  wood  that  was,  after 
all,  a  fashionable  drawing-room  or  a  perfumed  boudoir,  set 
for  the  graceful  and  heartless  loves  of  shepherds  and  shep 
herdesses  dressed  in  silks  and  satins.  .  .  .  The  young  ar 
chitect  grinned  at  him.  "Like  it?"  he  whispered.  "I  did 
it  myself.  Pretty  good,  I  think !" 

"We  had  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  with  that  little  song  in 
your  play,"  said  Gregory  Storm.  "The  one  the  fat  man 
sings."  He  smiled  appreciatively.  "We  set  it  to  two  or 
three  old  ballad  tunes  before  we  got  the  right  one.  Would 
you  mind,  Mr.  Deedy,  trying  it  for  us  ?" 

Mr.  Deedy,  who  was  to  take  the  part  of  the  Banker  in 
the  play,  stepped  forward  and  sang  in  a  mournful  voice: 

"Do  you  remember  when  first  we  met, 
How,  in  that  April  weather, 
Chasing  a  butterfly,  we  ran, 
Over  the  hills  together!" 
"Good!"  said  Gregory  Storm.     "Now  the  last  stanza." 

"But  shall  we  then  withhold  our  hands 
And  stay  our  foolish  feet 
When  next  illusion  flutters  by? 
I  wonder,  O  my  sweet !" 

The  effect  was  quite  as  droll  as  Felix  had  desired. 
"Mr.  Whipple,"  said  Gregory  Storm,  "is  the  Advertising 
Man.     Mr.   Deedy  is   the  Guide.     And   Miss   Macklin,   of 
course,  is  the  Dryad.     Are  you  ready?"     He  clapped  his 
hands  again. 

Miss  Macklin  stepped  back  into  the  wings ;  the  three  men 
lay  down,  in  attitudes  of  sleep,  beside  what  was  supposed 
to  be  a  camp-fire  in  a  forest,  and  Felix's  play  had  begun. 

Felix  was  looking  at  the  girl  in  the  wings.  He  had  never 
taken  the  performance  of  his  play  very  seriously;  he  had 


The  Briary-Bush 

never  supposed  that  any  group  of  people  would  ever  be 
able  to  enter  into  its  spirit.  He  had  misjudged  Gregory 
Storm.  No  fantasy  was  too  quaint  and  absurd  for  him  to 
understand,  it  seemed:  and  moreover,  he  had  conveyed  to 
these  men  on  the  stage  his  own  zest  in  the  fantasy— they 
really  succeeded  in  transporting  one  into  this  realm  of 
pseudo-reality  in  which  anything  might  happen.  .  .  .  And 
that  girl :  she  was,  of  all  persons  in  the  world,  the  one  to 
play  that  part.  She  had  an  elvish  look,  the  very  air  and 
gesture  of  one  of  those  soulless,  ever-living  creatures  of  the 
wood,  who  have  in  one  form  or  another  haunted  and 
tormented  the  imagination  of  masculine  mankind.  There 
was  something  about  the  shape  of  her  mouth,  a  delicate 
sharpness  of  contour,  which  made  it  look  inhuman,  as  though 
not  made  for  mortal  kisses ;  and  the  way  her  forehead  went 
up  and  back  on  each  side  in  strange  receding  planes  to  the 
roots  of  her  tangled  black  hair — there  was  foreignness,  and 
remoteness,  and  mystery,  in  that  face.  ...  He  took  his 
eyes  from  her. 

These  men  were  doing  very  well  indeed.  But  what  would 
an  audience  think?  That  was  a  different  matter. 

He  waited  for  the  Dryad's  entrance.  He  wanted  to  hear 
her  speak — she  had  not  as  yet  uttered  a  single  word.  .  .  . 
Yes,  her  voice  was  all  that  it  should  be — low,  deep,  cool, 
clear,  and  as  if  from  far  away,  beautiful  and  emotionless, 
the  voice  of  an  elf.  .  .  .  And  really,  it  was  amusing,  this 
absurd  discussion  of  morals  that  ensued,  when  the  Dryad 
offered  to  accompany  these  men  to  Chicago — the  discussion 
of  what  their  wives  would  think,  and  her  na'ive  questions, 
and  their  laboured  explanations  of  marriage,  and  morality, 
and  clothes,  all  the  civilized  things  which  a  poor  Dryad 
would  find  it  so  hard  to  understand  and  a  Banker  and  an 
Advertising  Man  so  difficult  to  explain.  And  then  the 
Guide,  the  very  Shavian  Guide  with  a  philosophy  of  his 
own — not  a  bad  touch! 

When  Felix  left  the  Artists'  Theatre  that  night,  he  had 
a  feeling  that  he  had  been  away  from  the  real  world  for  a 
long  time — like  Rip  Van  Winkle  coming  back  from  a  brief 


The  Rehearsal  311 

stay  in  the  Troll's  Garden  to  find  his  friends  all  dead  or 
grown  old.  ...  It  was  too  deep  an  allurement.  He  must 
not  go  to  any  more  rehearsals.  They  could  get  along  well 
enough  without  him. 

"How  did  the  rehearsal  go?"  Rose- Ann  waked  up  to  ask. 

"Beautifully,"  he  said.  "But  the  theatre  is  too  much  for 
me.  I  feel  as  though  if  I  went  behind  the  scenes  again  I 
would  never  come  back." 

"Would  that  be  so  terrible?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"But — I  might  go,  too.  ...  I'd  like  to  play  a  part  like 
your  Dryad — if  I  could." 

He  remembered  her  suddenly  as  he  had  seen  her  among 
the  children  at  the  Community  House  Theatre.  Yes,  she 
could  play  such  a  part.  But  ...  he  didn't  want  her  to— 
for  some  reason  which  he  could  not  understand.  She  must 
stay  here  in  the  world  of  reality — and  keep  him  here. 

"They  said  something  about  a  ball — to  make  some  money 
for  the  theatre,"  he  remarked.  "I  suppose  we'll  have  to 
go?" 

"I'd  like  to  go,"  she  said,  and  commenced  planning  their 
costumes  with  enthusiasm. 


XXLVII.  The  Fortunate  Youth 


ON  the  occasion  of  the.  opening  bill  of  the  Artists' 
Theatre,  a  young  man  who  had  just  joined  the 
staff  of  the  Chronicle  was  delegated  to  attend  and 
criticize  the  performance;  what  he  said  in  praise  or  blame 
would  not  matter  either  way.  .  .  .  The  play  came  off  very 
well,  was  generously  applauded,  and  there  was  an  excited 
little  supper  afterward  at  which  Felix  and  Rose- Ann  and 
Clive  and  Phyllis  and  the  cast  of  "The  Dryad"  drank  a  good 
deal  of  wine,  and  many  compliments  were  bandied  back  and 
forth.  And  that,  Felix  thought,  was  the  end  of  the  matter. 

But  it  seemed  not.  Of  course,  the  young  man  who 
criticized  the  play  for  the  Chronicle  had  to  make  a  fool  of 
himself  and  Felix  by  hailing  him  as  "our  new  Barrie"; 
but  that  did  not  do  any  real  harm.  Most  of  the  critics  were 
sensible,  and  treated  the  event  with  casual  indifference.  But 
old  Jennison,  the  "dean  of  the  fraternity,"  had  gone  the 
second  night,  and  given  the  play  a  most  astonishing  com 
mendation,  well-calculated  to  turn  any  young  playwright's 
head — besides  remarking  privately  to  Felix  on  the  street 
that  he  was  wasting  his  time  fooling  with  amateurs — why 
didn't  he  aim  for  Broadway,  he  had  the  stuff  in  him,  and 
so  forth.  .  .  .  And  the  bill  was  going  so  well,  on  account, 
it  was  said,  of  Felix's  play,  that  the  original  run  of  two 
weeks  had  been  extended  to  three. 

Success?  So  his  friends  called  it  lightly,  and  though  he 
made  an  effort  to  see  it  in  its  true  perspective,  Felix  felt 
a  glow  of  elation.  Perhaps  he  had  really  shown  that  he 
could  do  something ! 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  on  the  final  night  of  the  bill, 
which  had  managed  to  eke  out  a  four  weeks'  run,  he  went 

312 


The  Fortunate  Youth  313 

to  another  little  supper  party,  with  Rose-Ann,  Clive  and 
Phyllis,  and  the  players,  and  heard — with  somewhat  less 
sense  of  being  "guyed" — their  extravagant  praises.  .  .  . 
Besides,  he  knew  something  that  they  did  not  know — not 
even,  as  yet,  Rose- Ann :  an  actor-manager-playright  from 
New  York,  who  happened  to  be  in  town,  had  seen  "The 
Dryad,"  liked  it,  and  said  that  it  could  be  made  into  a  suc 
cessful  three-act  play — had,  in  fact,  offered  to  collaborate 
with  him  upon  it!  That  sounded  like  the  real  thing. 
Perhaps  these  praises  were  not  the  absurdities  they 
seemed.  .  .  . 

That  evening  Clive  was  in  a  difficult  mood;  he  and 
Phyllis  had  been  tormenting  each  other  of  late  to  the  point 
of  exacerbation.  Give's  ironies  lacked  tonight  the  quality, 
whatever  it  was,  that  made  them  agreeable.  He  managed 
by  some  satirical  remark  to  offend  Miss  Macklin,  to  whom 
he  had  been  paying  special  attentions.  He  commenced  to 
drink  recklessly.  Phyllis  refused  contemptuously  to  speak 
to  him.  And  then  suddenly  he  disappeared. 

Phyllis  came  home  with  Felix  and  Rose-Ann.  At  the 
studio  they  made  coffee,  and  talked  about  the  ball  and  their 
costumes.  At  last  Felix  told  them  about  the  actor-manager 
and  his  offer. 

"Well,"  Phyllis  asked,  "how  does  it  feel  to  have  every 
thing  you  want?" 

"It  feels,"  Felix  said,  "unreal — disturbing.  It  can't  be 
true.  Do  you  remember  the  story  of  Polycrates?" 

"No,"  said  Phyllis. 

"Herodotus  tells  about  it — and  I  was  thinking  about  it 
only  today,  and  I  made  up  a  little  rhyme  about  it.  I'll  tell 
you  the  story.  .  .  ." 

2 

Phyllis,  sitting  on  the  floor,  with  her  coffee  beside  her, 
was  looking  up  at  him  with  eager  eyes,  eyes  full  of  pride 
greater  even  than  Rose-Ann's.  Rose-Ann  was  a  realist. 
She  knew  all  this  did  not  amount  to  so  much.  This  story 
was  addressed  to  Phyllis.  Rose-Ann,  reclining  on  the  settle, 


The  Briary-Bush 

seemed  a  little  outside  the  circle  of  its  intention,  some  one 
accidentally  looking  on. 

"He  was  a  Persian  king — very  rich,  very  powerful, 
very  happy.  And  there  came  to  visit  him  a  Greek  philos 
opher.  The  Persian  king  asked  him,  'What  is  the  use  of 
philosophy?'  And  the  Greek  philosopher  answered.  'It 
serves  to  reconcile  us  to  the  unhappiness  of  our  lot/  'Then 
what  use  is  it  to  me?'  the  king  asked.  'I  am  not  unhappy. 
I  am  the  happiest  of  mortals.'  'Yes,'  said  the  philosopher, 
4you  are  too  happy.  You  had  better  beware!'  'Of  what?' 
asked  the  king.  'Of  the  jealousy  of  the  gods/  said  the 
philosopher. 

"That  sounded  reasonable  enough  to  the  king.  He  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  men;  but  the  gods — they  might  well 
be  jealous  of  him.  'What  shall  I  do  to  appease  their 
wrath?'  he  asked. 

"Take  the  most  precious  thing  you  own,  and  throw  it  into 
the  sea!"  was  the  advice  of  the  philosopher. 

"Now  the  king  had  a  certain  ring,  which  at  the  beginning 
of  his  reign  he  had  taken  from  the  hand  of  a  conquered 
monarch,  and  which  he  had  always  cherished  as  the  symbol 
of  his  victorious  career.  It  seemed  to  him  the  most  precious 
of  all  his  possessions,  and  so  he  went  and  threw  it  into 
the  sea. 

"But  the  next  evening  as  the  king  and  the  philosopher 
sat  down  to  dinner,  the  cook  came  running  in  with  the  ring, 
which  he  had  that  moment  found  in  the  entrails  of  a  fish 
which  was  going  to  be  the  king's  dinner.  The  king  took  it 
with  great  satisfaction,  saying,  'The  gods  have  given  me 
back  my  ring/ 

"But  the  philosopher  turned  pale,  and  said,  'The  gods 
have  rejected  your  gift/  and  immediately  went  home,  fear 
ing  to  be  in  that  kingdom  when  the  wrath  of  the  gods 
descended  upon  it. 

"And  when  he  had  returned  to  Greece,  he  heard  that  the 
king's  enemies  had  descended  upon  the  kingdom  and  over 
thrown  it,  and  sacked  the  palace,  and  carried  away  the  king's 
wives,  and  built  a  great  pyre  of  the  palace  furnishings  and 


The  Fortunate  Youth  315 

set  the  king  on  top  of  it  on  his  golden  throne,  to  be 
burnt.  .  .  . 

"The  story  ends  happily  after  all,  in  Herodotus.  But  it 
was  a  narrow  squeak,  and  the  gods  only  relented  at  the  last 
minute,  by  softening  the  hearts  of  his  conquerors  and  send 
ing  a  rain  to  put  out  the  fire.  But  the  gods  are  capricious 
— and  perhaps  the  next  time  they  wouldn't  change  their 
minds." 

"And  the  rhyme  you  made  up  about  it?"     Phyllis  asked. 

"Well,  it  points  the  moral  of  the  tale : 

"When  there  is  nothing  left  to  wish, 
And  Earth's  too  much  like  Heaven, 
Throw  azuay  some  lovely  gift 
Of  all  the  gods  have  given! 

"Too  happy,  like  that  king  of  old 
Who  gave  the  sea  his  ring — 
Find  out  if  there's  in  store  for  you 
The  fate  of  that  old  king!" 

Rose-Ann  sat  up  and  smiled  at  him.  "But  Felix,"  she 
said,  "you've  got  it  all  wrong!  You  don't  understand  the 
moral  of  that  old  fable  at  all!" 

"No?" 

"No!"  said  Rose-Ann.  "The  gods  were  angry  at  that 
old  king  because  he  didn't  appreciate  what  they  had  done 
for  him.  ...  It  was  because  he  threw  away  some  of  the 
loveliness  that  they  had  given  him,  that  they  punished  him. 
He  was  a  coward — and  the  gods  don't  like  cowards!" 

"No?"  .  .  .  Felix  was  realizing  now  consciously  what  he 
had  meant  by  the  story.  Those  evenings  in  his  work-room, 
with  the  door  open  between  him  and  Phyllis,  and  Phyllis 
come  in  to  sit  on  the  floor  beside  him  in  some  interval  of  his 
work — intervals  that  grew  longer  and  longer — all  the  sweet 
ness  of  that  friendship,  so  much  more  than  friendship  that 
it  was  almost  like  love  ...  it  was  this  that  he  was  going 
to  throw  away.  He  was  going  to  give  up  his  room,  and  get 
another,  or  return  to  the  studio  to  work.  It  was  this 
intention  that  he  had  unconsciously  in  mind  when  he  wrote — 


316  The  Briary-Bush 

"Throw  away  some  lovely  gift 
Of  all  the  gods  have  given !" 

"No,  Felix,"  Rose-Ann  was  saying,  "there's  no  use  being 
afraid  of  good  fortune.  When  the  gods  give  us  beauty, 
we  must  take  it — not  run  away  from  it." 

"So!  .  .  ."he  said.  "I'm  afraid  the  Greeks  thought 
differently." 

"They  were  so  much  less  Greek,  ftien,"  said  Rose-Ann. 

3 

"It's  late,"  said  Phyllis.  "I  must  go  home.  Will  you 
take  me,  Felix?" 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out  with  her  silently. 

They  walked  along  the  empty  streets  without  a  word  until 
they  reached  the  door  of  the  house  in  which  she  lived.  Then 
she  lifted  her  face  up  to  him,  and  said, 

"You  know  that  I  love  you,  Felix." 


XLVIII.  Dream-Tryst 


f  •  iHE  foundations  of  Felix's  existence  seemed  to  crack 
and  fall  apart,  the  whole  edifice  of  thought  and 

-•-  emotion  in  which  he  lived  to  topple  and  tumble  in 
ruins. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly,  "—I  didn't  know." 

They  turned,  and  walked  down  the  street  toward  the  cor 
ner,  side  by  side.  At  the  corner  they  paused,  and  looked  at 
each  other  helplessly. 

"Yes,  I  do  too  know,"  Felix  said.  "I  must  have  always 
known." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  back,  walking  along  the  street  in  silence,  past  the 
door  of  the  house,  to  the  corner,  where  they  stopped  again. 

"I  couldn't  stand  it,"  Phyllis  said,  "not  to  tell  you.  It 
hurt  so — to  have  to  keep  it  a  secret,  as  if  it  were  something 
to  be  ashamed  of.  And  I  thought — if  there  is  anything  in 
this  modernism — this  talk — if  it  really  means  anything,  if 
it  isn't  all  just  a  damned  fake — I  could  tell  you.  I  wanted 
to.  I  had  to,  Felix." 

Yes.  .  .of  course.  That  was  the  meaning  of  it 
all.  ... 

"You  aren't  angry  at  me,  Felix,  for  telling  you?" 

No — he  wasn't  angry.  It  seemed  to  him  magnificent — 
the  simplicity,  the  bravery,  the  candour  of  that  confession. 
She  was  to  him  in  that  moment  a  person  more  quietly  sure 
of  herself,  more  nobly  honest,  than  anything  in  all  this 
tangled  insincerity  of  modern  life — a  creature  out  of  some 
poem  of  the  world's  youth.  Beside  him,  as  she  walked,  her 
very  person  seemed  magnified — her  soft  brown  hair,  her 
dark  quiet  eyes,  her  serene  mouth,  seemed  the  features  of  an 


318  The  Briary-Bush 

epic  heroine,  who  faced  life  strong-limbed,  clear-eyed  and 
unafraid.  She  was  the  embodiment  of  that  calm,  serene, 
strong  girl-goddess  who  had  been  with  him  a  recurring  love- 
dream  since  childhood.  The  beauty,  the  simplicity,  of  that 
confession  of  love  stirred  him  to  the  depths  of  his  emotions. 
.  .  .  And  he  realized  that  he  had  something  to  confess  in 
return — something  that  this  honesty  of  hers  required  of 
him.  But  they  had  turned  again  and  walked  back  to  the 
other  corner  before  he  could  say  it.  It  came  with  difficulty, 
with  an  effort  that  took  all  his  courage,  all  his  strength. 
And  yet  it  must  be  said.  .  .  . 

"I  love  you,  too,  Phyllis." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  as  if  puzzled,  startled,  incredulous. 

"I  didn't  know  it  till  just  this  moment — but  it's  true." 

"But — why?"  She  put  her  hand  as  if  defensively  to 
her  bosom,  to  ward  off  a  danger  she  had  not  apprehended. 

"Why  should  you  love  me?" 

He  pondered.  "I  don't  know.  Why  do  people  love  each 
other?  I  don't  know." 

"You  love  me!"  she  repeated,  as  if  it  were  a  problem 
for  which  she  were  seeking  the  answer. 

"Yes,"  Felix  said  soberly. 

"But  then—" 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  and  they  turned  and 
walked  again  slowly  back  to  the  other  corner. 

"That  makes  a  difference,"  she  said.  "I  never  thought 
of  that.  It  was  all  so  simple  before." 

"Are  you  sorry  I — love  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I  don't 
dare  realize  it.  Of  course  I'm  glad — and  sorry,  too — and 
frightened.  Oh,  Felix,  what  shall  we  do?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  grave,  awed  eyes. 

"I — "  Felix  began,  and  stopped;  and  they  resumed  their 
walk,  not  touching  each  other.  .  .  . 

Felix  had  no  sense  of  the  street  upon  which  he  walked, 
He  was  detached  from  everything,  except  the  knowledge  oi 
what  had  happened — that  little  cleared  space  of  certainties, 


Dream-Tryst 

about  which  was  a  whirling  chaos  in  which  all  things  fell 
confusedly  into  nothingness.  .  .  . 

He  realized  that  he  had  to  adjust  this  thing  that  had  hap 
pened,  to  all  the  rest  of  his  life,  to  Rose-Ann,  to  his  mar 
riage,  to  his  career.  The  sense  of  those  things,  even  of 
Rose- Ann,  came  slowly ;  his  mind  was  reluctant  to  face  them. 
He  wanted  to  stay  here,  in  this  cleared  space  in  which  one 
thing  was  beautifully  true.  But  already  that  moment  was 
passing.  With  the  sense  of  those  other  things,  this  that 
had  happened  was  no  longer  beautiful,  but  terrible — a  bur 
den,  a  problem.  .  .  . 

He  shook  his  head  as  if  to  free  it  from  heaviness,  the 
intolerable  weight  of  thought.  But  he  must  think.  .  .  . 
Was  it  true  that  he  cared  for  nothing  but  this  moment  of 
mad  beauty?  Rose-Ann,  his  marriage,  his  home,  his  plans, 
his  future — was  it  true  that  these  things  meant  nothing  to 
him?  Could  he  forget  them  all  in  an  instant?  Had  a 
word,  a  phrase,  shattered  the  whole  edifice  of  his  life? 
Was  all  this  elaborate  structure  of  plans  and  ambitions,  this 
sober  adjustment  to  the  world  of  solid  reality,  a  bubble 
that  vanished  at  a  touch? 

That  was  what  he  had  been  afraid  of,  that  day  in  the  hos 
pital,  when  he  had  tried  to  tell  Rose-Ann  about  himself. 
He  had  wanted  to  tell  her  what  a  fool  he  was.  He  had 
wanted  to  assure  her  that  he  would  be  such  a  fool  no  longer. 
And  he  had  not  had  the  courage.  She  had  taken  him  as  he 
was.  .-  She  had  exacted  no  promises.  .  .  .  Well,  this  was 
what  he  was  like — this ! 

No — he  must  be  sane.  Just  because  this  moment  seemed 
the  only  thing  in  the  world  worth  holding  to,  just  because  he 
wanted  to  stay  in  this  dream-world,  just  because  he  cared 
about  nothing  else,  he  must  fight  his  way  back  to  reality. 
He  must  not  surrender.  This  was  the  test :  whether  he 
could  be  a  sane  man,  or  must  spend  his  whole  life  in  the 
following  of  disconnected  impulses,  a  vagabond  and  a  fool. 
He  wanted  to  keep  this  beauty :  well,  then,  he  must  give  it 
up. 


320  The  Briary-Bush 

They  had  stopped  again,  at  the  other  corner.  Phyllis  re 
garded  him  quietly  with  troubled  eyes.  "Rose- Ann.  ..." 
she  said. 

"Yes.     I  know.     Rose-Ann.     And  everything." 

"No.     We  can't,"  she  said. 

"No.     We  mustn't." 

They  looked  at  each  other  bravely,  and  a  little  pitifully, 
and  recommenced  their  silent  promenade  along  the  deserted 
street. 

At  the  door,  she  stopped  firmly,  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"You  must  go,"  she  said.  "Good  night.  I'm — glad,  in 
spite  of  everything.  Good  night." 

He  held  her  hand  in  his,  desperately  anxious  to  keep 
this  moment's  beauty  a  little  longer,  before  he  returned  to 
the  world  of  reality.  "Will  you — kiss  me?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Not  even  in  good-bye?"  he  urged. 

She  laughed,  with  a  sudden  resumption  of  lightness.  "A 
good-bye  kiss?  There's  no  such  thing,  Felix!  A  kiss  is 
always  the  beginning  of  things. — Good  night!"  She  held 
his  hand  a  moment,  and  added  in  the  most  friendly  way,  as 
if  they  were  almost  strangers,  "I  shall  see  you  at  the  ball 
tomorrow  night?" 


He  turned  away,  glad  that  she  had  been  so  sane — and 
sorry.  Angry  at  her,  for  no  reason.  Happy  that  he  was 
going  home  to  Rose-Ann — to  Rose-Ann,  lovely  and  real  now 
ih  his  mind — out  of  all  this  madness ! 

He  commenced  to  whistle  tunelessly.  .  .  . 

And  then,  as  if  brought  by  the  night-breeze,  a  breath  of 
dream-nostalgia  overwhelmed  him,  making  him  dizzy  and 
faint.  He  stopped,  trembling  all  over.  .  .  . 

By  God,  he  must  get  over  this.  ...  He  must  get  back 
to  reality. 

And  Rose-Ann  must  help  him.  He  would  tell  her  every 
thing.  .  .  .  He  opened  the  door  of  the  studio  and  cried  out 


Dream-Tryst  321 

her  name,  like  a  frightened  child  come  back  to  its  mother. 

"Yes?"  she  called  back.  She  was  sitting  up  in  bed, 
sewing  spangles  on  her  costume  for  the  ball  tomorrow  night. 

He  suddenly  realized  that  everything  was  all  right — 
that  there  was  nothing  to  tell. 


XLIX.  A  Matter  of  Convention 


NO— nothing  to  tell !  .  .  .  They  talked  about  the  ball, 
and  the  costumes  they  were  to  wear;  and  in  the 
profound  reassuring  consciousness  that  life  is  some 
thing  that  need  only  be  lived,  that  need  not  be  discussed 
and  understood,  he  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  told  Rose- 
Ann.  But  the  moment  to  tell  had  passed.  ...  Life  was 
going  on  as  usual,  ignoring  these  private  crises.  Yes — he 
and  Rose-Ann  and  Phyllis,  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
were  going  to  the  Artists'  Theatre  Ball!  Rose- Ann  was 
going  in  a  Spanish  dress  with  a  wonderful  shawl  for  which 
she  had  long  awaited  the  proper  occasion,  and  Felix  as  a 
pirate,  in  green  sash  and  orange  shirt.  .  .  .  They  were 
going  to  dance — instead  of,  as  would  have  seemed  most 
fitting  to  Felix,  to  discuss  their  destinies. 


It  was  precisely  this  mere  matter  of  dancing  that  now 
incongruously  troubled  him. 

Felix  was  not  a  dancing  man.  And  that  would  have  been 
all  right,  if  he  had  not  wanted  to  dance.  But  he  did  want 
to  dance !  Even  at  this  moment,  with  so  much  more  impor 
tant  things  to  think  about,  it  began  to  occupy  all  his  thoughts. 
He  wanted  to  dance.  It  was  annoying  not  to  be  able  to. 
.  .  .  He  had  more  than  once  gone  through  the  excruciating 
agony  of  trying  to  learn.  He  had,  in  fact,  learned,  so  far 
as  one  can  learn  anything  against  which  there  operates  some 
mysterious  inward  paralysis.  He  knew  the  steps  as  well 
as  he  knew  the  multiplication  table.  But  just  as  sometimes 
in  school  there  had  come  upon  him  a  fatal  helpless  confu- 

322 


A  Matter  of  Convention  323 

sion  in  which  he  was  unable  to  remember  whether  nine 
times  seven  was  eighty-one  or  sixty-four,  so  it  was  when 
he  tried  to  put  his  knowledge  in  practice  in  a  ballroom. 
He  reminded  himself  of  nothing  so  much  as  the  hapless 
hero  of  that  old  joke,  who  said,  "Yes,  I  can  dance,  except 
that  the  music  bothers  me  and  the  girl  gets  in  my  way!" 

And  he  might  have  accepted  his  inability  to  dance  as  a 
fact,  and  let  it  go  at  that — except  that  it  wasn't  a  fact! 
Somehow,  heaven  only  knew  how,  half  a  dozen  times  in 
his  adult  life  he  had  been  able  to  dance — and  not  badly. 
But  what  were  the  circumstances  which  magically  operated 
to  liberate  him  from  this  mysterious  paralysis,  he  did  not 
know.  He  never  knew  whether  he  was  going  to  be  able 
to  dance  or  not.  He  always  went  fearing  the  worst,  and 
generally  it  happened.  Rose-Ann  could  not  understand  it, 
because  once  when  there  had  been  impromptu  dancing  to 
a  phonograph  after  a  dinner  party  at  some  one's  home,  he 
had  danced  with  her  without  the  slightest  awkwardness; 
but  when,  while  dancing  with  her  a  second  time,  she  whis 
pered  to  him  to  ask  some  of  the  other  girls  to  dance,  he 
became  embarrassed,  and  made  protestations  of  his  inability. 
She  knew  that  he  could  dance,  and  she  at  first  regarded 
his  attitude  as  a  kind  of  stupid  stubbornness.  But  no 
scoldings,  nor  any  patient  gentleness  for  that  matter,  was 
able  to  change  it. 

Tonight  Felix  knew  from  the  beginning  that  he  was  not 
going  to  be  able  to  dance.  He  sat  in  the  box  with  Rose- 
Ann  and  Phyllis  and  Give  and  several  of  the  players,  utterly 
miserable.  They  had  arrayed  themselves  for  the  ball  at 
the  Artists'  Theatre,  and  that  preliminary  part  of  the  affair 
had  been,  as  it  always  was,  delightful.  He  wished  one 
could  dress  up  to  go  to  a  ball,  and  then  not  go.  The 
dressing,  the  showing  off  of  costumes,  the  banter,  the 
laughter,  the  drinking  of  cocktails  and  black  coffee,  all  the 
preparations,  had  been  good  fun ;  but  now  commenced  the 
evening's  misery.  Rose-Ann  looked  at  him  inquiringly  as 
the  orchestra  struck  up  a  two-step,  and  he  shook  his  head. 
No — he  couldn't  do  it  tonight.  And  so  she  stepped  off  in 


324  The  Briary-Bush 

the  arms  of  Clive.  Phyllis — he  had  never  danced  with 
Phyllis — was  waiting,  he  thought,  for  him  to  ask  her.  He 
doggedly  leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  box  and  watched  the 
dancers.  Why,  he  asked  himself,  had  he  come?  He  saw 
Phyllis  a  minute  later,  dancing  with  a  man  in  a  pseudo- 
monkish  costume,  one  of  the  actors.  Elva  Macklin — had 
she  taken  that  name  Elva  because  she  knew  she  was  elvish, 
or  had  the  prevision  of  parents  bestowed  it  upon  her? — 
was  dancing  with  Gregory  Storm.  The  box  was  vacated, 
except  for  Felix,  who  sat  looking  on  the  scene  with  a 
jealous  and  angry  eye. 

A  few  pieces  of  coloured  cloth,  a  bangle,  some  rouge,  a 
military  coat,  a  shawl,  a  sash,  a  bit  of  lace,  a  strain  of 
music,  and  these  people  were  transformed,  one  and  all, 
out  of  their  accustomed  workaday  mood,  gone  happily  into 
an  atmosphere  of  fantasy  such  as  with  infinite  labour  was 
created  in  the  theatre.  They  were  acting,  all  of  them — not 
paying  any  attention  to  what  part  any  one  else  was  acting, 
but  content  to  be  in  an  environment  in  which  their  own 
play-impulses  were  released.  They  went  as  in  a  dream — 
smiling,  moved  by  the  music  as  the  leaves  of  a  tree  are 
moved  by  the  wind,  surrendering  themselves  utterly  to  its 
influence.  They  were  not  here,  not  here  in  this  plush  and 
gilt  room,  amid  commonplace  mortals  decorated  with 
coloured  cloth,  but  in  some  dreamland,  some  fairyland  of 
their  own  wishes.  The  person  whom  one  held  in  one's  arms 
was  not  a  real  person,  in  whom  one  was  really  interested, 
not  a  person  to  love  or  hate,  but  a  part  of  the  dream.  A 
wand  had  been  waved  over  this  assemblage,  commanding 
them  to  forget,  to  dream,  to  be  free  and  happy  and  young. 
And  all  of  them,  except  himself  only,  had  obeyed.  Why 
could  he  not  surrender  himself  to  this  influence?  Why 
must  he  remain,  in  spite  of  his  sash  and  coloured  shirt, 
so  obstinately  and  awkwardly  and  unhappily  himself  ?  Why 
did  not  that  music  touch  some  secret  spring  in  his  soul, 
too,  to  make  him  its  creature,  a  leaf  wind-blown  on  the  tree 
of  life?  ,Why  did  his  eyes  still  see  the  persons  underneath 


A  Matter  of  Convention  325 

their  costumes — the  girls  not  as  dancing  partners  but  as 
"personalities"?  Personalities,  indeed! — these  men  and 
women  had  left  their  personalities  gladly  behind  in  the  cloak 
room;  they  were  free  of  them  for  the  evening;  tomorrow 
they  would  go  back  to  being  lawyers  and  wives,  clerks  and 
poets  and  college  students ;  tonight  they  were— 

Well,  what  were  they?  If  one  chose  to  think  so,  bodies, 
merely  that,  bodies  surrendering  themselves  to  each  other  as 
shamelessly  and  frankly  as  to  the  music  which  swayed  them. 
.  .  .  But  no,  he  knew  better  than  that :  they  were — if  ever, 
now,  precisely  now — immortal  souls ;  this  spectacle  was  spirit 
triumphing  over  flesh  and  using  it  for  its  own  beautiful 
uses,  the  magic  uses  of  a  dream.  These  arms  and  bosoms 
and  bodies  were  the  instruments  of  a  poetry  which  these 
couples  created  in  a  magnificently  impersonal  way — the 
poetry  of  beauty  met  with  strength ;  it  was  not  Dick  and 
Jane,  it  was  essential  man  and  woman,  in  love  with  some 
eternal  beauty  in  themselves  and  each  other  of  which  they 
were,  as  persons,  the  fleeting  and  mortal  agents. 

But  why  the  devil  couldn't  he  feel  that  way  ?  Each  time 
that  the  girls  of  his  party  returned  to  the  box,  flushed  and 
laughing  in  an  interim  between  the  dances,  he  felt  their 
presence  as  a  demand  upon  him,  a  demand  which  it  was 
disgraceful  not  to  meet.  Every  glance  of  Rose-Ann's  was 
a  look,  or  so  he  interpreted  it,  of  inquiry  or  reproach.  She 
knew  he  could  dance;  that  was  the  worst  of  it.  He  could 
dance — with  her — easily  enough ;  he  would  dance  with  her 
now,  if  there  was  no  one  else  around  that  they  knew.  But 
if  he  danced  with  her,  he  would  have  no  excuse  for  not 
dancing  with  the  others — his  last  defence  would  be  gone. 
.  .  .  He  fled  from  the  box  in  the  direction  of  the  bar, 
was  pulled  down  into  a  chair  by  Eddie  Silver,  who  was 
buying  drinks  for  a  group  of  men  and  girls,  and  asked 
what  he  would  have.  "Whiskey  straight,"  he  said  humbly, 
why,  after  all,  should  he  despise  this  time-hononred  refuge 
from  the  hardships  of  life,  from  problems  too  complex  to 
be  solved  and  responsibilities  too  great  to  be  borne? 


326  The  Briary-Bush 

3 

He  could  not,  it  seemed,  get  drunk.  The  whiskey  only 
made  him  think  with  a  preternatural  clearness;  and  the 
more  clearly  he  thought  upon  himself,  as  a  straggler  here 
in  the  bar-room  from  the  battle-field  of  life  out  there  on  the 
dancing  floor,  the  more  he  despised  himself.  .  .  .  But  he 
seemed  to  be  despising  some  one  else  named  Felix  Fay, 
from  whom  he  felt  utterly  detached  and  for  whom  he  felt 
no  responsibility.  Funny  Felix !  In  a  way  he  could  under 
stand  the  poor  devil.  ...  He  had  been  brought  up  in  a 
puritanical  way,  and  then  had  acquired  a  lot  of  romantic 
notions  from  poetry-books;  and  in  spite  of  all  his  fine 
intellectual  theories  he  was  still  just  a  romantic  boy-prude, 
to  whom  the  idea  of  taking  a  strange  girl  in  his  arms  and 
walking  her  around  the  room  to  music  would  naturally  be 
upsetting.  ...  A  funny  boy,  that  Felix  Fay !  Why,  he  had 
been  thinking  quite  seriously  of  making  love  to  another 
girl  besides  his  wife — and  he  would  be  quite  equal  to  it, 
too  ...  after  arguing  it  out  theoretically  and  finding  that 
it  was  his  sociological  duty  or  something  of  that  sort!  .  .  . 
He  wanted  things  to  be  plain  and  straightforward,  black  and 
white ;  either  he  was  making  love  to  a  girl  or  he  wasn't— 
it  was  the  in-between  things  that  confused  and  appalled  him. 
To  this  Felix  Fay  person  it  would  be  simple  enough  to  defy 
the  conventions ;  what  he  couldn't  do  was  adjust  himself  to 
them  like  everybody  else.  He  could  intellectually  conceive, 
and  if  it  came  to  that,  undertake  to  carry  into  practice, 
some  preposterous  theory  of  free-love  that  he  had  read  about 
in  Havelock  Ellis  or  Ellen  Key ;  but  he  couldn't  dance  with 
a  girl  he  liked!  No,  that  was  too  difficult;  it  wasn't  a 
theory,  and  he  hadn't  read  about  it  in  a  book.  ...  If  people 
didn't  dance,  and  some  one  wrote  a  book  and  proved  that 
they  ought  to,  Felix  Fay  would  believe  it,  and  argue  about 
it,  and  finally  do  it  in  a  mood  of  stern  conscientious  futuristic 
morality— if  they  killed  him  for  it!  But  do  something  that 
everybody  else  did— no.  Not  Felix.  Somebody  else  would 
have  kissed  Phyllis  long  ago,  and  said  nothing  about  it.  If 


A  Matter  of  Convention  327 

somebody  else  had  thought  of  having  a  love-affair  with 
Phyllis,  the  last  person  in  the  world  he  would  have  thought 
of  discussing  it  with  would  have  been  his  own  wife.  The 
world  forgave  people  who  kissed  in  corners,  who  had  secret 
love-affairs  while  pretending  to  believe— while  actually 
believing — in  the  ten  commandments  and  the  laws  of  the 
state  of  Illinois.  If  you  accepted  what  everybody  believed, 
you  could  have  the  same  freedom  as  everybody  else.  It  was 
only  if  you  believed  in  freedom,  really  believed  in  it,  that 
you  couldn't  have  any.  Why  couldn't  Felix  Fay  understand 
that?  .  .  .  Poor  devil,  he  was  going  to  get  in  trouble  some 
time.  .  .  . 

The  being  who  thus  in  a  state  of  utter  detachment  scorn 
fully  and  sadly  criticized  Felix  Fay,  floated  back  airily, 
or  at  least  with  no  sense  of  treading  any  actual  floor  with 
mortal  feet,  to  the  ballroom.  Across  the  room  he  saw  some 
one  coming  toward  him,  smiling.  It  was  Elva  Macklin; 
but  it  was  not  by  that  name,  nor  as  the  actress  who  had 
taken  a  part  in  his  play,  that  he  identified  her ;  it  was  rather 
as  a  childhood  playmate— a  girl  with  whom  he  had  once 
danced,  long  years  ago,  in  a  garret.  She  was  dressed  as 
a  dryad,  disguised  in  a  leafy  covering,  but  he  recognized 
her  well  enough.  It  was  clear  to  him  that  they  had  an 
engagement  to  dance  together — an  engagement  that  had 
waited  all  these  years.  The  music  struck  up,  he  held  out 
his  arms,  and  she  walked  into  them  without  a  word.  They 
floated  off  across  the  room,  into  the  maze  of  dancers,  thread 
ing  their  way  among  the  others  with  that  ease  which  comes 
of  senses  quickened  with  music,  pausing  and  turning,  draw 
ing  upon  the  floor  an  intricate  pattern  of  movement  born  of 
fancy.  The  others  in  the  room  did  not  exist  for  him,  save 
as  shadows,  bright  shadows  cast  by  the  music.  They  were 
alone,  in  a  dream,  in  a  soft  wordless  dream;  they  did  not 
so  much  listen  to  the  music  as  create  it  by  their  own  move 
ments.  They  had  left  the  world  of  reality,  as  if  for  ever, 
they  were  in  some  realm  of  golden  light,  a  land  of  fruits 
and  flowers,  a  place  of  quiet,  triumphant  happiness.  This 
girl  with  him  was  no  real  girl,  but  a  part  of  the  dream;  he 


328  The  Briary-Bush 

had  always  known  her;  she  was  the  companion  of  many 
wanderings  through  the  lands  of  reverie ;  they  understood 
each  other  too  well  to  need  words;  she  was  his  dream 
comrade.  Not  a  girl,  not  anyone  that  one  must  love  or  not 
love,  fight  for  and  work  for,  but  a  shadow  like  himself  in 
this  place  of  bright  shadows,  in  this  peaceful  and  happy 
realm  beyond  life  and  beyond  death.  .  .  . 

The  music  stopped,  and  he  awoke  with  some  astonish 
ment  to  find  that  he,  Felix  Fay,  had  been  dancing.  Elva 
Macklin  smiled,  gave  his  hand  a  grateful  pressure,  and 
turned  to  the  young  man  who  came  up  asserting  that  the 
next  dance  was  his. 

Suddenly  alarmed,  Felix  turned  to  flee  from  the  ballroom ; 
but  it  was  too  late.  Phyllis  had  detached  herself  from  her 
partner,  and  came  over  to  him.  "Aren't  you  going  to  dance 
with  me?"  she  asked.  The  handclapping  died  away  as  the 
musicians  took  up  their  instruments  again.  Phyllis  faced 
him  confidently — a  lovely  and  to  him  at  this  moment  a 
terrifying  figure.  All  the  sweetness  of  the  love  that  might 
have  been — that  might  be — his,  kindled  for  him  in  her  grave 
eyes.  Dance  with  her?  No,  he  couldn't.  But  he  must. 
Self-consciously,  ashamed  of  himself,  hating  her,  he  took 
her  hand,  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  listening  intently  to 
the  music,  stepped  off.  But  something  was  wrong ;  he  could 
not  get  the  rhythm;  he  stopped.  She  had  surrendered  her 
self  to  his  guidance  utterly,  but  now  that  that  was  at  fault 
she  began  to  try  to  guide  him.  That  made  him  angry;  he 
paused  once  more,  listened  to  the  music,  and  said.  "Oh, 
confound  it — it's  a  waltz.  I'm  sorry — I  can't  waltz."  She 
regretfully  walked  back  with  him  to  the  edge  of  the  dancing 
floor,  where  he  tried  desperately  to  think  of  something  to 
say  to  her.  It  was  shameful  to  be  thus  at  a  loss.  Did  she 
despise  him  ?  She  ought  to.  ...  Some  one  else  came  along, 
and  she  danced  off,  leaving  Felix  furious  and  relieved. 
He  went  back  to  the  box. 

Rose-Ann  was  there,  resting  from  innumerable  dances, 
talking  with  Clive.  "I  see  you've  been  dancing !"  she  said. 
"Yes,"  he  told  her,  "I  don't  know  how  it  happened.  Will 


A  Matter  of  Convention  329 

you  try  the  next  one  with  me?"  At  least,  if  he  made  a 
failure  of  it  with  Rose-Ann,  she  would  forgive  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Just  this  one  more  dance,  and  then 
we'll  go  home." 

Because  it  was  the  last  dance,  because  he  need  fear  nothing 
more  tonight,  and  because  he  had  secretly  resolved  never  to 
subject  himself  to  this  torment  again,  the  demon  in  his 
mind  that  argued  and  discussed  and  made  him  awkward 
and  afraid,  went  to  sleep.  His  last  dance,  his  last  dance 
ever — and  then  .  .  .  back  to  a  desk,  where  he  belonged! 

"Why!"  said  Rose-Ann,  "you  dance  beautifully!"  She 
said  it  in  a  puzzled  tone. 

Felix  was  annoyed.  He  lost  the  rhythm  and  stepped  on 
her  foot. 

"It's  my  fault !"  she  said.  But  he  knew  it  wasn't.  Why 
did  he  try  to  dance  when  he  couldn't  ?  Wouldn't  that  music 
ever  stop? 

He  wanted  to  tell  Rose-Ann  about — about  Phyllis.  She 
would  understand. 


L.  Babes  in  the  Wood 


HE  told  her  that  night ;  they  talked  till  dawn.     She  did 
understand;  and  so,  it  seemel  to  him,  did  he — for 
the  first  time.     Everything  became  simple  and  clear 
again — a  final  proof,  if  the  doubting  mind  required  such 
proof,  that  candour  was  a  medicine  for  all  the  ills  of  love. 

Things  like  this — emotional  upsets — occurred  in  all 
marriages ;  the  trouble  was  that  the  disturbed  emotions  were 
left  to  fester  in  secret.  Talking  with  Rose-Ann  had  put  the 
incident  in  its  true  light.  Yes — of  course  he  and  Phyllis 
loved  each  other;  that  was  not  strange.  There  was  an 
element  of  love  in  every  friendship  between  man  and  wo 
man  ;  and  that  it  should  be  here  in  this  friendship  of  his  and 
Phyllis's  was  right  and  natural.  It  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
afraid  of,  to  run  away  from — it  was  something  rather  to  be 
glad  about.  It  had  been  there  between  them  all  this  while, 
enriching  their  two  lives,  his  and  Phyllis's,  making  their 
friendship  one  full  of  tenderness  and  understanding;  it  had 
done  them  no  harm,  certainly !  Civilization  meant  the 
possibility  of  such  friendships,  instead  of  a  timid  restricting 
of  the  emotions  to  a  single  person.  The  world  was  full  of 
men  and  women  friends  who  were  in  this  sense  lovers ;  only 
they  did  not  usually  confess  it  to  each  other.  Sometimes 
they  were  afraid  to  let  each  other  know  the  truth ;  sometimes 
afraid  to  face  the  truth  themselves.  But  was  there  anything 
terrible  in  such  a  truth?  Phyllis  and  he  had  faced  it,  that 
was  all.  They  had  spoken  out  what  was  usually  left  un 
spoken.  And  why  should  that  change  their  lives  ? 

It  was  the  fault  of  Romance,  that  suave  peddler  of 
spiritual  poisons ;  and  of  Puritanism,  that  maniacal  purveyor 
of  chains  and  padlocks — it  was  the  fault  of  these  two  that 

330 


Babes  in  the  Wood  331 

the  situation  should  ever  for  a  moment  have  seemed  alarm 
ing.  Over  the  scene,  as  he  and  Phyllis  had  stood  together 
telling  each  other  a  secret  that  any  one  else  in  the  world 
could  have  read  at  a  glance,  there  had  brooded  these  two 
antique  and  ridiculous  fantasms — Romance  and  Puritanism. 
Romance  had  whispered  to  them :  "This  is  a  moment  such 
as  comes  only  once  in  a  lifetime — a  moment  beautiful  and 
tragic !  You  were  born  for  this !  You  cannot  escape !  You 
are  Paris  and  Helen,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Lancelot  and 
Guenevere,  Tristram  and  Iseult!  You  are  the  hero  and 
heroine  of  all  myths,  all  dreams !  Your  love  is  doomed  and 
beautiful!  Some  death  will  run  its  sudden  ringer  round 
this  spark  and  sever  you  from  the  rest.  .  .  .  Kiss  now,  and 
die !"  And  on  the  other  side  that  gibbering  lunatic 
Puritanism  had  cried  out :  "No  !  no !  Put  on  these  chains. 
Blindfold  your  eyes  so  that  you  cannot  see  beauty,  stop  up 
your  ears  against  all  sweet  voices !  Tie  your  hands  together 
lest  they  touch  what  is  not  yours,  and  put  a  chain  upon  your 
feet  lest  they  stray  from  the  accustomed  path.  Padlock  your 
lips,  lest  they  say  what  is  in  your  heart,  and  seal  up  your 
heart  so  that  no  tenderness,  no  generous  faith,  no  natural 
affection  may  escape!  Be  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb,  be 
come  as  one  dead,  for  only  in  this  is  safety !"  And  between 
these  two  fantastic  ghosts  they  had  stood  and  trembled, 
finding  it  hard  to  discover  of  themselves  the  obvious  and 
simple  thing  to  do,  but  reading  it  at  last  in  each  other's 
eyes — to  go  on  being  in  love  with  each  other  and  behave 
exactly  as  before ! 

So  it  seemed  to  Felix  ^s  he  lay  and  talked  with  Rose-Ann 
till  dawn.  .  .  .  He  felt  that  he  was  something  of  a  simple 
ton,  but  that  life  itself  was  easy  enough  to  live  if  one  could 
only  learn  to  deal  with  it  directly  and  see  it  as  it  was. 


It  was  strange  that  after  that  beautiful  discovery  Felix 
should  have  waked  to  a  sense  of  dull  unhappiness,  of  loss,  of 
grief.  .  .  .  He  tried  to  conceal  these  feelings  from  Rose- 
Ann.  It  was  as  if  he  had  not  been  sincere  in  giving  up  the 


332  The  Briary-Bush 

possibility  of  happiness  with  Phyllis — that  possibility  which 
had  seemed  to  exist  so  long  as  he  left  his  secret  untold,  but 
which  he  had  killed  with  his  confession.  Was  it  so  simple  a 
matter,  after  all  ?  He  sometimes  suspected  that  he  would  be 
content  with  nothing  less  than  the  impossible.  .  .  . 

The  first  afternoon  that  he  had  not  had  to  work  at  the 
office,,  an  afternoon  when  ordinarily  he  would  have  gone  to 
his  workroom,  and  met  Phyllis  there  when  she  came  home 
from  her  work,  and  stopped  writing  to  talk  with  her — that 
afternoon  he  stayed  in  his  studio.  And  he  asked  himself — 
was  it  because  he  did  not  believe  that  things  were  as  he  and 
Rose- Ann  had  told  each  other?  Was  it  because  he  would 
feel  conscious  of  a  chain  of  duty,  and  preferred  to  wear  it,  if 
at  all,  here  at  home?  Yes,  what  was  the  use  of  being 
hypocritical  about  the  situation  ?  Why  pretend  that  love  was 
so  docile,  so  manageable  and  good-natured,  so  tame  a  beast  ? 
It  was  a  creature  of  the  j  ungle — or  was  it,  really  ?  Perhaps 
the  reason  he  did  not  trust  himself  with  Phyllis  was  that  he 
feared  to  discover  that  they  were  merely  good  friends  after 
all! 

He  stayed  at  home  and  was  restless  and  discontented.  If 
he  could  really  believe — his  incorrigible  utopianism  demanded 
that — in  his  freedom,  he  could  be  content.  He  loved  Rose- 
Ann.  But  why  this  sham,  this  lie — that  he  could  love 
Phyllis,  too,  and  no  harm  done?  Of  course  he  wanted 
Phyllis — and  was  willing  to  give  her  up,  if  it  were  under 
stood  that  that  was  what  he  was  doing.  But  it  was  intol 
erable,  this  pretence  that  he  could  do  as  he  pleased.  Could 
he?  Yes,  suppose  it  had  pleased  him  to  say — 

Rose-Ann  interrupted  his  thoughts,  the  fifth  evening. 
She  was  sitting  at  her  desk,  and  Felix  at  his.  Suddenly 
she  rose. 

"Felix,"  she  said.  Her  voice  had  a  ring  of  painful 
resolution  in  it.  He  turned,  with  a  feeling  of  fear.  She 
stood  leaning  back  against  her  desk,  resting  her  hands  on  it. 

"Felix!  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  .  .  .  Don't  talk,  I 
want  to  say  what  I  have  to  say.  .  .  .  I'm  not  mistaken  this 
time.  I've  seen  you.  You're  unhappy.  ...  I  know  you 


Babes  in  the  Wood  333 

don't  believe  I  meant  what  I  said — that  you  could  have 
your  freedom.  But  it's  true.  .  .  .  You  love  Phyllis.  Don't 
you?" 

It  was  a  challenge.  This  thing  had  to  be  settled  now. 
Did  he  love  Phyllis?  The  devil  only  knew.  But  for  the 
purposes  of  this  damned  argument — 

"Yes !"  he  said  defiantly.     "I  do !" 

His  mind  went  back  to  the  time  when  they  had  innocently 
rehearsed  this  scene  in  farce.  .  .  .  Now  it  was  happening  in 
deadly  earnest.  Yes — in  deadly  earnest. 

"The  thing  I  can't  stand,"  he  said,  between  clenched  teeth, 
"is  hearing  you  say  such  things  and  not  believing  you  mean 
them.  .  .  ." 

"You  can  believe  me,  Felix.  ...  I  want  you  to  be  happy, 
more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  I  don't  care. 
.  .  .  You've  been  wanting  her  all  week.  Go  to  her.  .  .  . 
And— don't  worry  about  me,  Felix.  Everything  will 
come  out  all  right." 

They  stared  solemnly  at  each  other,  trying  to  realize  what 
was  happening — bracing  themselves  to  meet  a  moment 
which  they  had  lightly  envisaged  in  theory,  in  discussion, 
but  which  in  reality  had  an  air  of  terribleness  about  it. 
That  conversation  should  have  taken  place  against  a  back 
ground  of  thunders  and  lightnings.  It  was  as  if  with  these 
words  they  had  pushed  aside  the  dear,  familiar  walls  of 
everyday  reality,  and  were  face  to  face  with  naked,  elemen 
tal  forces — as  if  they  were  suddenly  alone  and  helpless  in 
the  midst  of  a  huge,  impersonal,  indifferent  and  awful 
universe. 

3 

"Go  to  her,"  Rose-Ann  repeated  softly;  and  with  the 
feeling  of  one  strangely  doomed,  one  who  rested  under  the 
burden  of  a  frightful  duty  not  to  be  flinched  from,  Felix 
went  quietly  out  of  the  studio. 

He  could  still  see  Rose- Ann's  eyes  in  his  imagination: 
those  eyes,  not  tearful  now,  but  grave  and  brooding,  full 
of  courage.  .  .  .  Yes,  at  last  he  believed  her. 


LI.  "Bienfaits  de  la  Lime3 


ON  the  sidewalk,  the  branches  and  leaves  of  a  tree 
made  an  enchanting  pattern  of  shadow — cast  it 
seemed  by  the  moonlight,  though  it  was  only  by 
the  electric  arc  on  the  corner.  But,  as  Felix  looked  up,  he 
saw,  past  that  false  light,  the  moon  itself,  above  the  low 
roofs.  It  seemed  to  spring  free  from  an  encumbering  wrack 
of  grey  clouds,  and  stay  poised,  alone  and  splendid,  in  the 
blue  depths  of  sky.  Felix's  gaze  went  to  "that  far  white 
beacon  with  a  sense  of  return  to  his  own  world — and  with 
a  sense  of  profound  release  in  that  return.  .  .  .  For  there 
was  a  world  besides  the  world  of  daylit  reality ;  a  world 
not  of  work  and  wages,  of  code  and  custom,  of  law  and 
habit;  another  world  besides  that  in  which  men  and  women 
customarily  dwelt — yes,  there  was  this  world  lit  by  the 
changing  and  ranging  moon !  Though  people  turned  their 
backs  upon  it,  and  hid  within  their  houses,  and  sought  to 
escape  its  disturbing  influences,  it  was  there.  It  always  had 
been  there,  it  always  would  be  there.  It  was  as  real  as 
the  workaday  world.  And  it  was  his  world.  He  had  tried 
to  renounce  it,  to  shut  it  out,  to  flee  from  its  magic.  He 
had  tried  to  believe  that  there  was  nothing  in  life  except 
that  routine  of  daily  reality  in  which  he  was  immersed.  A 
world  of  debts,  and  promises  to  pay;  a  world  of  roofs,  owned 
and  dwelt  under  and  ever  returned  to.  There  was  some 
thing  close  and  cloying  about  that  world;  something  of  the 
fetid  odour  of  toil  hung  about  its  very  pleasures.  It  was 
slavery ;  its  laughter  and  kisses  were  the  gilt  upon  the  chains. 
Believing  in  that  slavery,  men  had  built  the  four  walls  of 
the  world,  stone  upon  stone.  And  yet,  outside,  was  free 
dom.  .  .  . 

334 


Bienfaits  de  la  Lune  335 

Felix  became  aware  of  himself,  standing  bareheaded  a 
few  steps  from  the  door  of  his  studio,  gazing  at  the  moon. 
He  was  aware  of  the  absurdity  of  that  moment  of  moon 
struck  vision.  He  remembered  the  errand  he  was  upon,  and 
how  weighted  with  tragedy  it  had  seemed  a  minute  since. 
He  realized  the  symbolic  character  of  his  departure  from 
the  studio.  Yes — symbolic !  For  he  knew  now  that  he  did 
not  care  two  pins  for  Phyllis — as  a  person.  What  Rose- 
Ann  had  said  of  him  was  utterly  true.  He  did  not  care  for 
persons — not  even  for  Rose-Ann.  He  lived  in  a  world  of 
ideas.  And  because  he  had  found  the  idea  of  Rose-Ann 
as  his  jailor  intolerable,  he  had  taken  her  at  her  word, 
accepted  his  liberation,  gone  out.  of  the  door.  But  not — he 
smiled  at  the  foolish  thought — not  into  another  captivity, 
not  into  the  warm,  constraining,  anxious  arms  of  Phyllis, 
or  any  other!  No — he  was  free  now  of  the  idea  of  that 
tyranny;  and  Rose- Ann  was  free  of  it.  With  her  gesture 
motioning  him  to  go,  she  had  broken  the  intolerable  chain 
that  had  irked  their  lives.  Free  now,  his  own  master,  draw 
ing  his  breath  without  permission  from  any  other  living 
being,  once  more  able  to  call  his  soul  his  own,  he  could 
enjoy  at  last  the  companionship,  in  a  common  love  of  beauty, 
of  the  one  being  on  earth  who  loved  beauty  as  he  loved  it — 
and  who  understood  freedom  and  the  need  of  freedom 
better,  indeed,  than  he  had  ever  understood  it!  She  had 
never  lied  to  herself  or  to  him.  From  the  first  she  had 
disdained  to  accept  the  promises  which  he  had  been  so 
eager  to  make.  She  was  a  true  child  of  the  moon,  blessed 
with  its  gifts,  no  staid  denizen  of  the  sober  realm  of  day, 
but  fleet  of  soul  and  changeable  and  free  like  her  immortal 
mother  and  mistress! 

No — he  realized  it  now — no  mere  woman  could  hold  his 
love ;  it  had  been  folly  to  hope  and  pretend  so ;  not  Rose- 
Ann,  not  Phyllis,  not  any  woman.  But  one  who  could  be 
more  and  less  than  woman,  who  did  not,  as  mortal  women 
do,  want  to  own  and  be  owned ;  who  possessed  herself  with 
a  divine  aloofness,  who  had  her  own  orbit  that  nothing  could 


336  The  Briary-Bush 

deflect — in  her  he  could  find  a  companionship  deeper  than 
any  mortal  love. 

Even  to  himself,  as  he  conned  over  these  thoughts,  stand 
ing  bareheaded  on  the  sidewalk,  with  a  mind  confused  as 
by  the  splendour  of  a  revelation,  they  seemed  wanting  in 
final  definite  clearness.  He  was  happy  in  a  profound 
discovery,  which  he  sought  to  put  into  words  to  carry  back 
to  Rose- Ann.  Not  that  she  did  not  know  already ;  for  had 
she  not  forced  this  discovery  upon  him?  She  had  known 
all  along !  And  when  he  returned,  there  would  be  no  words 
needed.  But  still  he  must  seek  for  the  words.  .  .  .  But 
any  way  he  tried  to  put  it  to  himself  sounded  so  damned 
mystical,  like  some  cryptic  sentence  of  William  Blake's. 
And  it  was  all  so  obvious!  They  were  free.  Yet  that 
meant  nothing.  Foolish  people  like  Clive  Bangs  were  always 
talking  about  "freedom."  They  were  free,  one  might  put 
it  that  way,  free  not  to  love  each  other !  A  blessed  freedom. 
.  .  .  One  might  love  any  woman.  But  here  was  something 
greater  than  love.  To  know  that  there  was  something  in 
themselves  still  uncaptured,  ever  unattainable — something 
which  could  not  be  yielded,  by  whose  inviolable  having  they 
moved  secure  and  serene  among  a  world  of  emotional  bond 
slaves,  like  the  moon  among  the  shattered  vainly-grasping 
clouds !  More  beautiful  in  her  than  any  bodily  beauty  was 
that  ultimate  self-possession,  that  unshaken  and  unshakeable 
identity,  of  which  that  gesture  of  hers,  pointing  him  to  the 
door,  had  been  the  symbol.  Not  because  they  needed  each 
other,  not  because  they  were  so  poor  in  spirit  that  each 
must  lean  upon  the  other — no,  not  in  poverty  of  soul,  but 
in  a  sublime  indifference,  their  love  had  its  origin.  Because 
they  did  not  need  each  other,  because  they  could  do  without 
each  other,  this  was  added  unto  them,  this  happiness  of 
being  together.  Felix  saw  himself  and  Rose- Ann  like  moun 
tain-climbers,  high  on  some  chill  peak  above  a  coward,  sleepy 
world  that  dozed  and  battened  beneath  its  coverlets.  Or 
like  two  eagles,  circling  in  the  austere  upper  air.  Theirs 
should  be  no  common  happiness.  .  .  . 

He  turned  to  re-enter  the  studio. 


Bienfaits  de  la  Lune  337 


The  door  was  locked,  and  he  had  to  use  his  key.  He 
did  so  only  half -consciously,  and  blinked  at  the  blaze  of 
light  inside.  It  was  a  few  seconds  before  he  saw. 

On  the  settle,  and  strewn  over  chairs,  and  on  the  floor, 
lay  half  of  Rose-Ann's  wardrobe;  and  Rose- Ann  herself, 
with  her  face  hidden  in  her  arms,  was  seated  ridiculously 
in  an  open  suitcase  on  the  floor,  from  which  the  ends  of 
stockings  strayed  out — seated  there,  with  her  arms  on  her 
knees,  rocking  back  and  forth,  and  crying,  with  a  low,  choked 
sobbing— rocking  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  in  the 
suitcase,  like  a  child  in  a  cradle,  crying.  .  .  . 

She  had  been  packing  up.  To  go.  And  she  was  crying. 
He  stared  at  her,  and  the  vision  he  had  had  outside  of 
their  splendid  happiness  was  obliterated  by  the  wash  of 
a  vast  wave  of  bitterness. 

She  looked  up,  her  face  distorted,  made  ugly  with  a 
choked  sob,  stained  with  tears.  She  tried  to  speak.  He 
stared  at  her.  He  was  beginning  to  pity  her.  .  .  .  But  he 
must  not  pity  her.  If  he  did,  he  would  despise  her.  He 
did  not  dare  see  her,  so  soon  after  this  mad  nonsense  under 
the  moon,  as  little,  weak,  lonely,  afraid.  He  tried  not  to 
see  her  at  all— and  she  seemed  to  recede  from  him,  to  grow 
dim  and  faint  and  remote. 

"Go  away!"  she  cried,  and  turned  her  face  from  him, 
still  stooped  in  that  ridiculous,  infantile,  pitiful  posture. 

He  did  not  pity  her  now.  He  stood  dazed  as  from  a 
blow,  dazed  with  the  terrific  shock  of  the  impact  of  reality 
upon  his  dream.  He  tried  to  rouse  himself,  to  see,  to  feel. 
But  everything  was  misty  and  unreal  to  him.  He  spoke  to 
her,  as  though  across  a  vast  space,  dully. 

"So  you  didn't  mean  it?" 

She  sprang  up. 

"Why  are  you  here  ?  Didn't  you  go  ?  Aren't  you  going  ? 
Are  you  trying  to  torture  me?" 

She  advanced  upon  him  with  eyes  that  blazed,  hair  wild, 
and  hands  that  had  transformed  themselves  into  claws  ready 


338  The  Briary-Bush 

to  scratch  and  tear  him.  He  saw  all  this  as  if  it  were  a 
picture — a  picture  irrelevant  to  the  text.  He  made  a  little 
gesture  as  if  to  turn  the  leaf. 

"So  you  didn't  mean  it,"  he  said  again. 

She  stopped,  close  to  him;  looked  at  him  searchingly. 
"Where  have  you  been?"  she  asked  uncertainly. 

He  laughed  mirthlessly.  "Outside  the  door — looking  at 
the  moon." 

"I  thought — "  she  said. 

"No,"  he  said,  quietly,  sadly.  All  this  ought  to  matter 
greatly.  But  somehow  it  didn't  matter  at  all. 

"But—"  she  said. 

They  looked  at  each  other. 

"So  you  didn't  mean  it,"  he  said  once  more,  like  a  refrain. 

Her  demeanour  changed  suddenly.  She  looked  at  the 
clothes  on  the  chairs  and  on  the  floor,  and  went  over  and 
stood  beside  the  open  suitcase. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  meant,"  she  said  wearily.  "I 
couldn't  stand  it.  I  was  going  home."  She  gave  the  suit 
case  a  little  kick,  and  came  back  to  Felix.  "But  I  don't 
understand  you!"  she  said.  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said  indifferently. 

"Felix!"  she  said  desperately.  "What  has  happened? 
Where  are  we?  Do  we  love  each  other?  I  don't  under 
stand  anything  any  more.  Tell  me!  Help  me!" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Oh!"  she  said  savagely.  "You  don't  know!  Why  do 
you  stand  there  and  look  at  me  like  that?  Are  you  dead, 
or  am  I?" 

"I  don't  know." 

She  took  hold  of  his  shoulders  fiercely,  to  shake  him,  and 
then  dropped  her  hands.  "Are  you  angry  at  me?"  she 
asked.  "Why?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  angry.  I  just — don't  seem  to 
care." 

"I  know  I'm  a  fool !"  she  said.  "And— Felix,  I  did  mean 
it.  I  thought  I  did.  But — it  was  too  terrible.  .  .  .  After 
all,  I'm  human,  Felix." 


Bienfaits  de  la  Lune  339 

"Yes — I  see  you  are." 

"And  you're  not.  No — you're  not  human.  You're  a 
monster.  .  .  .  I — hate  you!  Not  because  of  Phyllis — no; 
you  don't  love  her,  either.  You  don't  love  anybody.  You 
stand  there — can't  you  understand,  can't  you  say  something, 
can't  you  pity  me  a  little  ?  Felix  !" 

He  saw,  he  heard,  across  an  infinite  gulf.  He  would  have 
liked  to  stir,  to  speak.  But  he  was  encased  in  an  icy  armour. 
Nothing  of  this  touched  him. 

She  sat  down  on  a  chair,  spilling  its  burden  of  clothing 
to  the  floor.  "How  long,"  she  asked  between  clenched  teeth, 
"is  this  going  to  go  on?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"Because,"  she  said,  "I  can't  bear  it.  It's — it's  worse 
than  the  other.  I  could  have  borne  that,  I  think — now. 
I  was  really  sorry  for  you,  Felix.  But  you  aren't  sorry 
for  me.  I  know — I  pretended  to  be  a  superwoman ;  and  I'm 
not.  But  can't  you  forgive  me?  Can't  you  allow  me  my — 
my  feelings?  .  .  .  No — you  haven't  got  any  feelings.  .  .  . 
Well — I  can't  stand  this.  I  can't  stand  it.  I — " 

His  mind  came  back  reluctantly  to  the  scene.  He  sat 
down. 

"I'm  very  tired,"  he  said.  "Can't  we  stop  talking  about 
it?" 

She  brushed  her  hand  bewilderedly  across  her  forehead. 
"Why  is  it?"  she  said.  "I'm  being  made  to  feel  like  a 
criminal?  Have  I  done  anything?" 

He  spoke  with  an  effort.  "No,"  he  said.  "Everything 
is  all  right — I  think.  I'm  sorry  I'm  behaving  this  way. 
Forgive  me  if  you  can.  I  can't  help  it." 

"Forgive  you?     For  what?" 

"For — for  thinking  you  meant  it.     I  should  have  known." 

She  sprang  up.  "I  can't  stay  here,"  she  said.  "I  must 
go  somewhere  to  think  things  out.  I  can't  stay  here  and 
have  you  say  that  to  me,  over  and  over.  .  .  .  Felix,  I'm 
going  away  somewhere  for  a  while.  I'll  come  back,  I 
suppose.  But — you  see  I  must  go,  don't  you?" 

"No.     But  it's  all  right." 


340  The  Briary-Bush 

He  watched  her  pack  her  suitcase,  still  in  the  strange 
half-trance  which  made  him  unable  to  stir.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  drunk  or  hypnotized.  He  could  see  that  she  was  going ; 
he  knew  that  he  ought  to  stop  her.  But  it  did  not  seem  to 
matter.  .  .  .  Only  when  she  was  dressed  for  the  journey, 
and  standing  before  him  to  say  good-bye,  did  the  numbness 
begin  to  vanish.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself — ashamed 
and  frightened.  He  felt  that  he  had  been  under  the  in 
fluence  of  a  kind  of  insanity — for  surely  that  was  the  very 
essence  of  insanity,  to  be  utterly  indifferent  to  all  the  events 
of  the  outside  world!  She  did  not  know,  even  though  she 
had  seen,  how  remote  from  her  he  had  been — how  dead  to 
her,  how  dead  to  all  reality.  .  .  . 

In  the  sudden  uprush  of  consciousness,  as  the  spell  broke, 
he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  and  clung  to  her. 
"Don't  go !"  he  cried.  "Don't  go!"  He  vaguely  remembered 
having  told  himself  that  they  were  different  from  other 
people — different,  in  that  they  could  do  without  each  other. 
What  folly !  He  had  thought  himself  strong,  self-sufficient. 
He  was  the  weakest,  loneliest,  most  helpless  person  in  the 
world.  "Don't  go,  Rose-Ann!" 

But  she  was  hard  now,  though  his  pleading  moved  her. 
She  kissed  him  wildly.  "I  will  come  back,"  she  said.  "I 
think  I  shall.  But  I  must  be  by  myself.  I  must."  And 
she  tore  herself  from  his  arms,  and  left  the  studio. 

He  flung  himself  on  the  floor  and  cried,  like  a  broken 
hearted  child. 


LII.  Sleepless  Nights 


IT  was  preposterous  that  one  should  go  to  an  office  the 
next  day  after  a  night  like  that — to  an  office,  and  write 
a  foolish  editorial,  and  smile,  and  talk  to  people,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  But  it  was  better  that  way;  one 
actually  forgot  for  minutes  at  a  time  what  had  happened, 
till  it  came  back  with  a  bewildering  influx  of  memory. 
There  was  also  a  play  which  one  could  go  to,  even  though 
it  seemed  strange  to  be  by  oneself,  sitting  beside  an  empty 
seat.  One  could  pay  attention  to  the  play,  could  even  think 
of  things  to  say  about  it,  could  write  those  things  coherently 
on  paper,  could  go  out  and  mail  them  in  the  box  on  the 
corner,  just  as  usual. 

There  was  only  one  flaw  in  the  usualness  of  all  this.  It 
was  not  usual  for  Felix  Fay  to  write  so  solemnly  about  a 
new  play.  It  was  his  habit  to  treat  serious  plays  lightly, 
and  light  plays  seriously ;  but  it  was  a  departure  from  his 
manner  to  be  actually  grave  about  anything.  This  play 
happened  to  be  about  a  man  who,  after  a  life-time  of  self- 
deluded  egotism,  had  suddenly  found  out  by  accident  what 
sort  of  person  he  actually  was.  Here  was  material  for 
Felix's  customary  light  irony;  why  should  he  write  upon 
the  theme  so  solemnly — "that  day  when  one  walks  upon  a 
reeling  earth  under  an  insane  sky" — as  if  it  were  Judgment 
Day  he  was  talking  about,  and  he  himself  had  been  there ! 

He  had  explained — or  not  explained — Rose- Ann's  absence 
in  a  phrase.  "She's  gone  off  somewhere — I  don't  know  just 
where." 

It  was  the  calm,  indifferent  tone  of  this  remark  that 
carried  the  impression  of  everything  being  quite  all  right. 
It  carried,  indeed,  the  conviction,  redoubled  and  renewed, 

34i 


342  The  Briary-Bush 

of  this  being  a  remarkable,  a  wonderful,  an  exemplary 
marriage.  These  people  really  lived  up  to  their  modernist 
theories !  Rose- Ann  had  wanted  to  go  off  somewhere,  and 
she  had  not  bothered  to  tell  Felix  where  she  was  going, 
nor  he  to  inquire!  That,  truly,  was  freedom! 


To  Phyllis,  indeed,  the  notion  occurred — only  to  be 
devoutly  disbelieved,  repudiated  and  forgotten — that  Rose- 
Ann's  absence  was  a  consequence  of  her  own  talk  with  Felix 
the  other  night.  But  Felix's  imperturbable  demeanour,  when 
she  met  him  and  Clive  at  lunch,  his  air  of  being  somewhat 
preoccupied  with  a  literary  problem,  the  complete  absence 
of  any  anxiety  in  his  face,  reassured  her.  She  had  been 
happy  in  telling  Felix  the  truth — or  what  seemed  to  emerge 
from  her  tangled  emotions  as  the  truth.  She  had  wished  to 
believe  that  this  was  possible;  and  she  had  dared  herself 
to  prove  it  possible.  She  had  told  him,  in  defiance  of  all 
convention,  that  she  loved  him !  There  was  a  splendour  in 
it  for  which  her  doubting  mind  ached,  as  a  parched  throat 
for  an  appeasing  drink.  That  he  should  tell  her  that  he 
loved  her  in  return  was  bewildering  and  troubling;  and  if 
it  was  news  that  she  secretly  desired  to  hear,  had  secretly 
hoped  to  elicit,  she  would  not  let  herself  realize  it.  For  a 
moment  her  universe  had  been  shaken;  but  for  a  moment 
only.  Things  had  righted  themselves,  after  an  intoxicating 
earthquake-tremour,  in  which  all  sorts  of  possibilities,  vast 
and  terrible  and  sweet,  had  presented  themselves.  For  a 
moment  she  had  felt  for  Felix  a  new  emotion,  one  of  pity 
mixed  with  tenderness;  almost,  her  ideal  of  him  had 
crumbled,  when  he  said  that  he  loved  her  in  return.  For  it 
was  as  Rose-Ann's  husband  that  she  loved  him — as  the 
partner  of  an  ideal  marriage.  For  a  dismayed  second  she 
had  thought  he  was  going  to  tell  her  that  he  no  longer  loved 
Rose-Ann ;  but  it  wasn't  so.  Things  were  as  they  should 
be.  ...  Except  that  he  shouldn't  have  wanted  to  kiss  her. 
She  disdained  him  for  that  weakness.  She  had  been  mean 
ing  to  ask  for  that  kiss  herself !  As  a  gift,  a  concession 


Sleepless  Nights  343 

from  his  strength  to  her  weakness — yes;  but  not  as  some 
thing  he  wanted.  .  .  . 

But,  as  she  remembered  the  event,  she  forgave  him  even 
that,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  been  sorry  for  her. 
That  was  why  he  had  wanted  to  kiss  her;  and  if  she  had 
realized  that,  she  would  have  let  him.  ...  As  she  re-enacted 
the  scene  in  memory,  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  been 
magnificently  untouched  by  it  all.  She  saw  herself,  dis 
contented,  unhappy,  making  her  confession  of  love ;  and  he, 
listening  quietly,  as  one  who  had  the  right  to  be  loved.  .  .  . 
So  it  should  be — so  she  had  thought  of  him.  And  he  had 
said  that  he  loved  her  too:  he  had  not  been  afraid  that  she 
would  misunderstand  him.  She  flushed  at  the  thought  that 
she  almost  had  misunderstood.  .  .  .  But,  no — everything 
had  gone  beautifully. 

And  Rose-Ann — he  had  of  course  told  Rose-Ann — what 
did  she  think  of  it?  Rose- Ann  would  not  begrudge  her  this 
confession,  this  moment  of  beauty.  Rose-Ann  had  gone 
away.  Why?  Perhaps  her  plans  had  jibed  with  the 
generous  desire  to  let  these  two,  Felix  and  Phyllis,  be  more 
together.  Perhaps  it  was  her  way  of  showing  that  it  was  all 
right.  .  .  . 

Underneath  all  these  rationalizations  there  was,  deep  in 
Phyllis's  mind,  a  panic  fear  which  she  would  not  recognize — 
a  fear  which  was  also  a  desire.  If  she  could  have  thought 
of  Felix  as  her  lover  without  despising  him,  she  would 
have  yielded  to  that  thought.  But  it  was  only  as  some  one 
already  too  happy  to  need  her  love,  that  she  could  love  him. 
If  she  could  have  thought  that  she  was  capable  of  harming 
his  happiness,  he  would  have  ceased  to  be  admirable  in  her 
eyes.  If  it  were  possible  to  have  him  for  a  lover,  he  would 
be  like  anybody  else.  .  .  .  No,  she  must  believe  in  the 
miraculous  perfection  of  Felix's  marriage  in  order  to  go  on 
being  in  love  with  him.  .  .  . 

3 

It  seemed  incredible  to  Felix  that  one  mad  moment  could 
have  done  all  this.  For  one  moment  only  he  had  surrendered 


344  The  Briary-Bush 

to  an  insane  illusion ;  and  the  results  had  been  profound  and 
incalculable.  All  this  time,  for  tw'o  years,  ever  since  the  day 
in  Port  Royal  when  he  had  burnt  his  crazy  novel,  he  had 
been  struggling  unceasingly  with  his  own  folly.  No  one 
had  understood  that  struggle,  no  one  had  helped  him.  Rose- 
Ann  had  not  understood.  She  had  sought  in  every  way  to 
encourage  him  in  what  was,  in  the  end,  sheer  madness. 
Only  by  keeping  his  feet  upon  the  earth,  only  by  continually 
distrusting  himself,  by  trying  to  find  what  was  most  difficult 
to  do,  and  doing  that — subjecting  himself  to  the  discipline 
of  reality — only  so  could  he  save  himself.  Step  by  step 
he  had  deserted  that  firm  ground,  and  gone  into  the  world  of 
dreams — where,  he  knew  now,  he  could  not  live  except 
alone.  He  did  not  want  to  be  alone.  He  wanted  the  world 
of  dear,  familiar  realities — he  wanted  Rose- Ann.  He 
wanted  Rose- Ann. 

4 

And,  meanwhile,  where  was  she?  At  her  father's  home, 
probably.  Should  he  write  to  her  there?  No — a  stubborn 
pride  surged  up  in  him,  forbidding  him  to  write.  She  must 
come  back. 

Was  it  true,  then,  that  he  did  not  love  her?  Surely,  if 
he  loved  her,  he  would  ask  her  to  return ! 

But  he  could  not. 

She  must  be  there,  at  home.  There  was  nothing  to  worry 
about.  .  .  .  And  yet,  by  day  and  night,  disturbing  fantasies 
arose  in  his  mind,  of  all  the  accidents  that  might  have 
happened  to  her — gruesome  fantasies,  that  unwound  them 
selves  in  his  mind.  He  would  awake  from  one  of  these 
imaginings  with  a  sense  of  guilt,  as  though  he  had  actually 
been  gloating  over  the  picture.  He  tried  to  think  her  safe. 
But  his  imagination  would  present — yes,  her  very  death  be 
fore  his  eyes.  It  was  horrible,  like  a  recurring  nightmare. 

A  week  passed,  and  she  did  not  return.  He  worried 
about  her,  night  and  day ;  and  yet  he  could  not  force  himself 
to  write  the  few  lines  that  might  bring  her  back  to  his  side. 
Perhaps  she  only  wanted  to  be  reassured.  Perhaps  she  was 


Sleepless  Nights  345 

waiting  for  that  summons.  .  .  .  Well,  she  must  come  back 
without  it. 

As  a  practical  matter,  it  became  more  and  more  difficult  to 
carry  on  the  pose  that  everything  was  all  right.  His  secret 
burden  became  almost  intolerable.  He  wanted  to  tell  some 
one.  But  who  could  understand?  Not  Clive,  not 
Phyllis.  .  .  . 

He  stayed  in  the  studio  every  moment  when  he  was  not  in 
the  office,  for  fear  she  would  return  and  not  find  him  there. 
He  must  be  there  when  she  came  back. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  not  come  back. 

The  issue  in  his  own  mind  was  clear — he  had  gone  over 
it  a  thousand  times ;  at  night  he  rehearsed  it  to  himself  sleep- 
lessly,  hour  after  hour.  He  had  made  a  fool  of  himself. 
But  it  had  been  her  fault. 

Yes,  her  fault.  That  was  why  he  could  not  write.  He 
would  have  to  write  humbly,  if  he  wrote  at  all ;  and  he  was 
in  no  humble  mood.  His  loneliness,  his  need  of  her,  only 
exasperated  his  sense  of  the  injury  she  had  done  him.  .  .  . 
She  had  urged  him  on  to  folly — that  was  hard  enough  to 
forgive — and  then  she  had  turned  and  fled  from  a  situation 
which  she  herself  had  created.  .  .  .  All  this  could  be 
discussed  and  understood  between  them ;  but  first  she  must 
come  back.  That  surrender  was  essential. 

It  was  hard  to  stick  it  out  this  way,  in  lonely,  sleepless 
waiting.  But  she  knew — it  was  her  own  fault;  her  return 
would  be  an  admission  of  that.  Then  he  could  say  how 
ashamed  he  was  of  himself.  But  first.  .  .  . 

He  must  wait — till  she  came  back. 

Who  had  talked  of  "freedom"?  Who  had  refused  to 
face  the  facts  of  marriage?  Who  had  engineered,  planned, 
touched  the  match  to  this  explosion?  She  knew  well 
enough !  He  need  not  say  these  things  to  her,  ever.  She 
would  confess  them  by  her  return.  That  would  be  enough. 

She  was  stubborn — but  he  was  still  more  stubborn.  He 
could  wait. 

She  would  come  back — and  then.  .  .  . 

They  would  start  all  over  again — sensibly. 


346  The  Briary-Bush 

5 

Rose- Ann,  meanwhile,  as  her  husband  supposed,  was  at  her 
father's  home  in  Springfield.  If  her  presence  there  excited 
any  curiosity,  she  was  scarcely  aware  of  it.  She  was  not 
concerned  with  anything  but  the  problem  of  herself  and 
Felix.  .  .  . 

She  was  not,  however,  as  he  sometimes  imagined,  waiting 
for  a  letter  from  him  to  make  easy  her  return  home.  She 
was,  as  she  had  told  him,  trying  to  "think  things  out." 

She  had  gone  away  with  that  sentence  of  his  ringing  in 
her  mind  :  "  So  you  didn't  m*ean  it  after  all! " 

She  had  not  slept  that  night,  on  the  train ;  nor  very  much 
since  that  time.  She  was  too  busy  trying  to  think  things  out ; 
and  the  chief  thing  to  think  out  was :  had  she  meant  it  when 
she  offered  Felix  his  freedom  ? 

No,  obviously  enough !  And  yet  her  pride  revolted  from 
that  fact.  Had  she  been  a  liar,  a  hypocrite,  all  this  while? 
Had  she  only  pretended  ?  It  was  too  shameful.  .  .  . 

She  really  had  meant  it.  She  had  been  in  earnest.  She 
had  understood  what  she  was  saying.  She  had  thought  she 
could  do  it.  ... 

Was  she  too  weak,  then?  Oh,  no!  It  was  a  mere 
momentary  weakness,  a  spiritual  infirmity  that  she  had  not 
expected,  but  that  she  could  have  conquered.  If  only 
Felix  had  not  come  in  just  then !  What  a  fool  she  must  have 
seemed !  What  a  liar ! 

But  why  couldn't  he  have  understood  ?  She  was  a  woman, 
after  all. 

No!  he  had  been  quite  right  to  disdain  her.  After  all 
she  had  said  to  him,  to  sit  there  on  the  floor,  blubbering. 
.  .  .  She  blushed  with  infinite  shame. 

That  was  the  trouble.  .  .  .  She  had  not  had  time  to 
adjust  herself  to  the  situation.  It  had  been  a  moment  of 
madness  when  she  suddenly  commenced  packing  to  go  home. 
She  had  not  known  what  she  was  doing.  .  .  .  An  hour  later, 
she  would  have  been  calm  again,  herself,  assured,  smiling. 
He  need  never  have  known.  , 


Sleepless  Nights  347 

But— if  she  really  meant  it— then  she  must  prove  it. 

Well? 

In  among  these  reasoned  arguments  that  pursued  each 
other  in  an  endless  weary  circle  in  her  mind,  floated  irrelevant 
memories — the  pressure  of  Felix's  arm  about  her  shoulders 
that  afternoon  on  the  train  going  out  to  Woods  Point  to  be 
married — a  fragment  of  that  wild  letter  he  had  written  her 
from  Canal  Street,  about  the  girl  in  Iowa— the  look  in  his 
eyes  as  he  had  seen  her  among  the  children  at  the  Community 
Theatre.  .  .  .  and  still  more  irrelevant  memories — the 
complaining  tones  of  her  mother,  saying  cruel  and  unjust 
things  about  her  father,  things  not  meant  for  a  child's  ears, 
years  ago — and  her  father's  face,  with  its  wise,  mocking, 
incredulous,  ironic  smile,  cutting  her  to  the  heart.  .  .  . 

Well? 

If  she  went  back,  if  she  proved  that  she  meant  what  she 
had  said— things  would  have  to  be  different.  They  had 
been  too  close.  They  had  been  like  other  married  people. 
That  was  his  fault.  Yes,  it  was  his  fault,  after  all,  that  she 
had  not  been  able  to  carry  out  her  promises.  He  had  made 
it  too  hard  for  her.  .  .  .  They  never  should  have  lived  to 
gether  under  the  same  roof.  They  never  should  have  be 
come  legally  married  in  the  first  place.  .  .  . 

They  would  have  to  live  apart,  in  separate  studios.  They 
must  not  pretend  to  be  man  and  wife.  She  would  be — yes, 
that  was  the  word  whteh  made  their  relationship  clear — his 
mistress.  It  was  a  good  word,  making  no  pretences.  His 
mistress— yes,  she  could  be  that.  If  she  loved  him 
enough.  .  .  . 

What?  Did  she  love  him  enough  only  to  be  his  wife? 
Not  enough  to  give  him  his  freedom? 

Her  father's  face,  with  its  mocking,  incredulous,  ironic 
smile,  came  into  her  mind,  blurring  her  thoughts,  rousing 
her  to  a  queer  anger  against  herself. 

No.     Or  yes  ?  .    .    . 

Well,  then? 


LIII.  Two  Letters 

ii, 

ON  the  tenth  day  of  Felix's  stubborn  waiting,  a  letter 
came  from  Rose-Ann.  It  was  at  the  studio  when 
he  returned  there  early  in  the  afternoon,  lying  on 
the  floor  where  the  postman  had  stuck  it  under  the  door. 

He  picked  it  up,  and  sat  down  at  his  desk.  At  the  very 
sight  of  it,  of  her  large  undisciplined  handwriting  on  the 
square  envelope,  her  presence  seemed  suddenly  to  fill  the 
room,  like  a  perfume  of  flowers — seemed  to  touch  and 
envelope  and  caress  him.  He  breathed  deeply,  and  the 
constraint  that  had  held  him  tense,  that  had  held  him  rigid 
all  these  days  and  nights,  flowed  from  him.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  returned  herself — and  all  at  once  all  that  had  passed 
was  like  a  nightmare,  terrible  and  queer,  but  already  vanish 
ing  into  oblivion  with  the  daylight. 

He  could  feel  her  presence,  hear  her  voice,  sweet  and 
familiar;  she  was  as  if  beside  him  in  the  room.  All  that 
their  marriage  had  been  flooded  his  mind,  memories  of  peace 
and  happiness  and  lovely  companionship. 

Nothing — nothing  could  break  that  bond.  She  knew  it  as 
well  as  he.  As  if  a  mere  moment  could  hurt  that  lifetime  of 
theirs  together! 

He  tore  open  the  letter. 

Dear  Felix  Fay — 

That  was  the  way  it  began.  .  .  . 

Dear  Felix  Fay — What  has  happened  of  course  makes  it  nec 
essary  for  us  to  make  a  decision — a  decision  which  I  cannot 
make  alone.  We  have  many  things  in  common — tastes,  ideas,  a 
love  of  beauty —  and  it  seems  that  it  would  be  a  pity  if  we  were 
to  lose  the  opportunity  for  companionship  altogether.  We  can 
not,  of  course,  go  on  as  before — /  mean  living  together  so  in- 

348 


Two  Letters  349 

timately.  I  can  find  another  studio,  perhaps  near  yours. — But  I 
do  not  know  if  I  am  making  myself  clear.  It  may  sound  as  if  I 
were  proposing  to  break  off  our  relationship  altogether.  I  have 
considered  that,  too;  but  that  is,  after  all,  in  your  hands.  What 
I  am  suggesting  is  that  each  of  us  retain  our  freedom,  and  live 
in  such  a  way  that  we  can  use  that  freedom  without  hurting 
each  other's  feelings — but  not  pretending  to  be  married  any 
more.  Only  the  situation  must  be  quite  clear  to  both  of  us. 
Please  tell  me  whether  you  agree  definitely  to  these  terms.  If 
so,  I  think  everything  can  be  arranged  in  detail  so  that  we  both 
will  be  happy. 

Rose- Ann. 


Felix's  first  feeling,  oddly  enough,  when  he  read  this  letter, 
was  a  sense  of  Rose-Ann's  disloyalty  to  their  studio — the 
studio  which  they  had  made  together.  .  .  .  His  imagination, 
stunned  and  shocked,  clung  bitterly  to  this  one  point,  as  if 
that  were  the  crux  of  the  matter.  .  .  .  That  she  should 
not  want  to  live  in  this  studio,  this  studio  whose  walls  she  had 
kalsomined,  whose  very  floor  she  had  painted !  Why,  every 
part  of  it  spelled  her!  As  if  he  could  take  her  studio,  and 
let  her  go  and  live  in  another!  If  there  was  any  moving 
to  be  done,  he  would  do  it.  He  would  get  another  place. 
She  could  live  here — she  must  live  here.  .  .  .  He  would 
take  a  few  books — no,  he  would  take  nothing.  It  was  all 
hers.  .  .  . 

Some  obliquity  of  the  imagination  helped  him,  like  a  drug, 
anaesthetizing  his  emotions,  during  the  first  few  minutes 
after  reading  that  letter.  His  mind  was  actually  busy  with 
the  practical  details  of  taking  up  a  new  residence,  as  if  that 
were  all  that  mattered. 

And  then  his  mind  began  to  feel  the  pain  of  what  had 
happened,  slowly,  increasingly,  terrifically.  .  .  .  She  had 
repudiated  their  marriage. 

He  felt  knocked  down,  trampled,  stamped  upon,  hurt  all 
over. 

So  this  was  what  she  had  been  thinking  of !  Not  of 
coming  home  to  him — but  of  living  apart  from  him. 


350  The  Briary-Bush 

He  read  the  letter  again,  with  a  rising  anger  that  mingled 
with  his  pain.  What  was  it  she  said?  "We  have  many 
things  in  common — tastes,  ideas,  a  love  of  beauty." — 
"Pity  if  we  were  to  lose  the  opportunity  for  companionship 
altogether" — "Not  pretending  to  be  married  any  more." 
So  it  meant  nothing  to  her,  then,  this  marriage?  She  could 
end  it  so  easily?  And  companionship,  mere  companion 
ship — that  did  mean  something  to  her?  That  was  what 
she  wanted  to  keep !  "Everything  can  be  arranged  in  detail 
so  that  we  both  will  be  happy" 

What  could  he  reply  to  a  letter  like  that?  What  could 
he  say  to  a  girl  who  told  him  that  her  happiness  lay  in 
their  not  being  married  any  more?  "Everything  could  be 
arranged  in  detail."  What  detail?  Where  she  was  going 
to  live?  What  did  that  matter  to  him?  Why  should  she 
think  that  she  had  to  live  near  him?  She  need  not  be  so 
kind.  If  their  marriage  meant  nothing  to  her,  he  could 
give  her  up  altogether.  "Companionship"  The  dead  body 
of  their  love  for  consolation  ?  No,  she  need  not  have  offered 
him  that.  .  .  .  She  might  have  spared  that  touch. 

"Whether  you  agree  definitely  to  these  terms"  How 
could  she  think  he  would  want  anything  like  that?  Had 
she  only  written  that  to  torture  him  ?  She  did  not  insist  on 
breaking  off  the  relationship  "altogether."  He  stared  at  the 
words.  Was  that  what  she  thought  of  him  ?  That  he  would 
be  happy — that  was  her  word — happy  .  .  .  if— 

Verses  from  a  poem,  bitter  verses,  came  into  his  mind: 

"A  kiss  is  but  a  kiss  now!  and.  no  wave 
Of  a  great  Hood  that  whirls  us  to  the  sea. 
But  as  you  will!  we'll  sit  contentedly 
And  eat  our  pot  of  honey  on  the  grave" 

He  laid  his  head  on  his  arms,  bent  over  the  table,  shivering 
with  a  fit  of  cold  anger  and  disgust.  Then  he  roused  him 
self,  and  wrote  quickly  an  answer  to  Rose- Ann's  letter. 

It  was  only  a  few  lines.     He  read  them  over,  sealed  the 

envelope,  and  went  out  to  mail  it  in  the  box  on  the  corner 

.  where  he  had  gone  so  often  to  mail  his  criticism,  so 


Two  Letters  351 

that  he  could  return  and  talk  the  night  through  at  Rose- 
Ann's  side. 

3 

Rose- Ann  had  composed  her  letter  with  difficulty.  At  the 
last  moment,  interfering  with  a  perfectly  clear  statement  of 
the  case  to  him,  had  come  a  distaste  for  proposing  herself 
as  any  man's  mistress — even  her  husband's.  .  .  .  She  must 
put  it  in  such  a  way  that  he  would  understand  her  willing 
ness.  He  would  understand,  too,  why  she  had  failed  before. 
It  was  her  apologia.  .  .  .  And  if  they  lived  apart,  and— 
didn't  want  to  have  other  love-affairs,  then  they  would  both 
be  sure  that  it  wasn't  her  fault.  Doubtless  she  had  been 
rather  silly  about  it.  He  hadn't  really  been  in  love  with 
Phyllis.  .  .  . 

It  would  be  possible  to  go  back  to  him,  now.  By  that 
letter  she  had  exorcised  that  ghastly  cry  that  had  kept  ring 
ing  in  her  ears,  night  and  day—  "You  didn't  mean  it  after 
all!"  She  could  sleep,  now. 

She  slept.  .  .  .  But  why  didn't  his  answer  come?  The 
mails  were  uncertain.  His  letter  might  be  in  the  postoffice 
now.  It  would  be  delivered  tomorrow  morning. 

She  packed  for  her  return  journey,  and  slept  again, 
peacefully. 

His  letter  came,  and  her  father  presented  it  to  her  with 
his  wise  smile.  She  took  it  to  her  room  and  tore  it  open. 

Rose-Ann,  I  think  it  had  better  be  all  over  for  good.  I  want 
you  to  have  the  studio.  I  will  go  somewhere  else. 

Felix. 

4 

Incredulous,  with  that  letter  burning  her  flesh,  tearing 
and  rasping  at  her  heart  where  she  had  thrust  it  into  the 
bosom  of  her  dress,  she  made  the  journey  to  Chicago. 

"All  over  .  .  .  all  over  ...  a//  over.  .  .  ."  She  could 
not  understand  it. 

Felix  was  not  in  the  studio.  She  called  him  up  at  the 
office.  He  was  not  there. 


352  The  Briary-Bush 

Was  he  with  Phyllis? 

She  waited.     Three  days. 

"Well,"  she  said  aloud  to  the  empty  studio.  "It's  true. 
It  is  all  over." 

She  went  back  to  the  Motion  Picture  World,  gave  some 
explanation  of  her  absence,  and  started  in  making  up  the 
magazine. 

"You  know,"  said  Bodger,  the  editor,  "we're  considering 
moving  out  to  California  in  the  course  of  the  next  few 
months.  Los  Angeles.  Might  as  well  be  on  the  spot.  .  .  . 
I  don't  suppose  you'd  consider  coming  along  with  us?" 

"Oh,  I  might!"  said  Rose-Ann. 


LIV.  The  God  and  the  Pedestal 


FOR  some  hours  after  sending  his  reply  to  Rose-Ann, 
Felix  kept  his  mind  steeled  against  any  realization 
of  its  consequences.  He  was  in  a  peculiar  state 
of  righteousness — like  one  who  has  struck  a  fatal  blow 
and  keeps  insisting  that  he  has  been  struck  first.  To  him, 
his  letter  to  Rose- Ann  appeared  but  the  reflex  of  her 
own- — and  she,  as  it  were,  the  author  of  both  letters.  Yes, 
the  crime  was  hers! 

But  just  what  this  crime  was,  he  still  managed  to  keep 
from  realizing — even  when,  after  mailing  his  letter  and 
sitting  for  an  hour  in  a  kind  of  stupour  at  his  desk,  he  rose, 
took  a  book  from  the  shelf,  and  went  away  to  find  a  room. 
The  book  was  "The  Bab  Ballads." 

He  took  the  Illinois  Central  in,  and  a  north  side  elevated 
train  out  again,  as  though  seeking  to  be  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  studio.  He  got  off,  at  a  venture,  at  Wilson 
Avenue,  and  within  an  hour  found  a  small  apartment  of 
two  rooms  and  bath,  furnished  "for  light-housekeeping," 
situated  over  a  coffee-and-tea  store,  three  flights  up.  It  had 
a  fairly  large  sitting  room  at  the  front.  He  noticed  a  small 
book  case  filled  with  sets  of  "The  Ivanhoe  Novels"  and  "The 
Complete  Works  of  Bulwer-Lytton."  Felix  told  the  fat 
middle-aged  woman  from  the  store  who  showed  it  to  him 
that  he  would  want  the  bookcase  for  books  of  his  own,  but 
not  immediately;  he  remarked  that  he  would  probably  buy 
some  of  her  coffee  in  the  morning  to  make  his  breakfast  on ; 
and  assured  her  that  he  would  not  set  the  hot  cup  on  the 
bare  table-top,  which  she  said  was  real  mahogany  and  had 
been  left  her  by  a  deceased  roomer  whom  she  had  looked 

353 


354  The  Briary-Bush 

after  when  he  was  sick.  When  she  had  gone,  leaving  him 
the  keys,  Felix  put  the  Bab  Ballads  in  between  the  Waverly 
Novels  and  the  Complete  Works  of  Bulwer-Lytton,  and 
sat  down  in  an  old  plush- upholstered  chair,  to  make  him 
self  at  home. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  knock — it  was  the  fat 
woman  from  the  store,  who  had  brought  him  up  a  pound 
of  her  best  coffee. 

"Not  that  I  want  to  bother  you,"  she  said.  "You  needn't 
be  afraid  I'll  be  knocking  at  your  door  and  keeping  watch 
of  your  comings  and  goings — live  and  let  live,  is  what  I 
say.  But  I  knew  from  the  way  you  spoke  of  coffee  that  you 
really  liked  it,  and  I  just  thought  I'd  bring  you  some  for 
your  breakfast.  A  man  that  makes  his  own  coffee  knows 
what  coffee  is — isn't  that  so !" 

He  thanked  her,  and  sat  down  to  look  out  of  the  window. 
The  interest  of  the  room  itself  had  been  exhausted;  it  was 
empty  equally  of  memories  and  of  hopes;  it  was  just  so 
many  dismal  square  feet  of  space.  He  had  uprooted  him 
self  from  the  place  in  which  he  had  lived  for  months  that 
were  like  years,  and  years  that  were  like  lifetimes;  he  had 
lived  in  that  studio — really  lived  in  it;  he  was  living  there 
now,  in  his  thoughts;  it  would  take  longer  to  uproot  his 
mind  from  that  place  than  it  had  his  body.  And  yet — he 
could  foresee  the  time,  incredible  though  it  was,  when  that 
studio  life  with  Rose-Ann  would  be  only  a  memory,  a  part 
of  his  past  .  .  .  like  his  life  with  his  Iowa  sweetheart 
during  their  brief  idyl,  years  ago.  Yes,  the  time  would 
come  when  all  this,  that  was  now  so  warm  and  near,  would 
be  dim  and  remote ;  a  time  when  it  would  no  longer  hurt 
him  to  think  about  it  all.  .  .  . 

As  he  sat  there  facing  the  window,  looking  out  unseeingly 
at  the  lighted  fagade  of  the  building  opposite,  the  strains 
of  dance  music  reached  him,  and  he  saw  couples  float  past 
the  windows  of  the  hall  on  the  floor  opposite  his  own.  He 
watched  and  listened  with  a  kind  of  dull  fascination,  for  a 
long  time.  .  .  .  He  was  very  tired.  He  thought  of  going 
to  bed.  But  that  music  from  across  the  street  would  never 


The  God  and  the  Pedestal         355 

stop — it  would  keep  on  with  its  silly  gaiety  hour  after  hour. 

He  rose  at  last  and  went  out.  He  was  going  to  his 
work-room.  He  could  spend  several  hours  cleaning  up  there 
— destroying  manuscripts  he  didn't  want  to  keep,  reducing 
the  amount  of  things  to  be  moved  to  a  minimum. 

Phyllis  might  be  in  her  room.  ...  He  thought  of  her 
there,  and  the  thought  comforted  him.  He  saw  her  again, 
in  his  thoughts,  as  he  had  seen  her  first— serene  and  kind 
and  strong.  It  was  good  to  think  of  her. 

Still  his  mind  did  not  quite  encompass  the  situation.  It 
was  as  though  something  had  happened  to  him — something 
stupendous,  terrible,  and  almost  unbearable,  like  the  death 
of  a  beloved  friend — something  not  wholly  to  be  realized. 
And  it  had  the  resistlessness  of  some  such  event;  he  did 
not  conceive  it  as  something  within  his  power  to  alter  or 
prevent — nor  in  any  sense  as  something  which  he  had  done 
himself.  If  he  had  thought  of  himself  as  having  done  this 
thing,  he  might  have  thought  of  undoing  it.  But  it  was  a 
thing  which  had  happened,  like  an  earthquake.  .  .  . 

In  his  room  he  gathered  up  fragments  of  manuscript- 
jottings  of  ideas,  efforts,  experiments,  unfinished  things— 
and  tore  them  up  after  a  casual  glance.  There  would  be 
little  to  take  with  him.  That  was  good.  ...  He  had  the 
feeling  that  a  new  life  had  begun  for  him,  a  life  at  which 
he  still  stared  in  vague  bewilderment,  like  a  creature  pain 
fully  new-born  into  an  uncomprehended  world. 

2 

He  could  hear  Phyllis  moving  about  on  the  other  side  of 
the  partition.  He  finished  his  work ;  the  wastebasket  was 
full  of  torn  manuscript,  and  his  Roget's  Thesaurus  and  his 
favourite  penholder  lay  together  on  the  table,  ready  to  take 
to  his  new  home.  He  no  longer  had  need  of  a  work-room, 
a  special  refuge  from  the  distracting  intimacies  of  marriage. 
He  was  free  from  all  that.  Yes— think  of  that— free!  .  .  . 
He  laughed  out  loud. 

Presently  Phyllis  would  come  and  knock  on  his  door. 
She  had  heard  him  enter,  she  knew  he  was  there.  He 


356  The  Briary-Bush 

wanted  to  see  her,  he  wanted  the  comfort  of  her  eyes,  her 
hands.  He  wanted  her  serenity,  her  kindness,  her  strength. 
But  he  lacked  even  the  energy  to  ask  for  it.  He  could  only 
sit  and  wait  until  she  came  to  him. 

He  felt  as  though  the  last  strength  he  possessed  were  being 
used  up  in  some  terrific  effort — an  effort  that  would  cease 
when  she  came.  Then  it  would  make  no  difference  that 
he  had  no  strength  left — her  courage  and  kindness  would 
sustain  him. 

The  impossible  had  happened — yes,  the  impossible.  For 
it  was  unthinkable  that  Rose-Ann  should  have  destroyed 
their  marriage.  But  she  had.  .  .  .  And  now  in  this  strange 
world  there  was  only  one  certainty  left — Phyllis's  eyes,  her 
arms,  her  understanding  love.  Here  was  reality,  here  firm 
ground  amidst  a  reeling  chaos  of  fantastic  madness.  .  .  . 
Phyllis ! 

He  could  hear,  as  in  a  dream,  the  bubbling  of  coffee, 
could  taste  the  fragrance  of  its  odour  stealing  through  the 
door.  .  .  .  Presently,  very  soon,  she  would  come.  .  .  . 

He  heard  her  knock,  and  he  thought  he  answered,  but 
it  seemed  not,  for  she  knocked  again,  and  then  opened  the 
door.  He  sat  there  limply  in  his  chair,  glad  she  had  come. 

"Did  I  disturb  you?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You're  tired!"  she  said,  and  came  quickly  to  him  and 
put  her  hand  on  his  forehead.  "I've  made  some  coffee," 
she  said.  "It  will  be  good  for  you." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  rose. 

She  led  the  way  into  her  room,  and  pointed  to  the  couch. 
"Lie  down  and  rest,"  she  said.  "I'll  give  you  your  coffee 
in  a  moment." 

She  busied  herself  with  cups  and  saucers,  and  he  watched 
her  from  the  couch.  She  came  toward  him,  a  cup  of  coffee 
in  her  hand,  her  arm  bare  to  the  elbow,  and  above  it  her 
eyes  shining  under  a  tangle  of  soft  brown  hair. 

"Here !"  she  said. 

When  he  made  no  effort  to  take  the  cup,  she  set  it  down 
on  the  stool  beside  the  bed.  He  took  her  hand,  and  drew 


The  God  and  the  Pedestal          357 

her  toward  him.  She  yielded  to  his  gesture  and  sat  down 
beside  him  on  the  couch,  looking  at  him  with  a  kind  of 
startled  amusement  as  he  took  her  arm  and  pressed  his 
cheek  against  it. 

"You're  very  tired,  aren't  you?"  she  said  sympathetically, 
and  touched  his  shoulder  with  her  other  hand. 

He  clung  to  her  arm.  It  was  cool  against  his  cheek.  All 
the  beauty,  all  the  peace,  all  the  rest  in  the  world  seemed  to 
be  in  that  cool  white  flesh.  Was  it  because  it  was  hers — or 
because  it  was  a  girl's  arm,  promising  rest  and  comfort  ?  He 
did  not  know.  He  only  clung  to  it. 

"Is  it  your  work — are  you  having  difficulties?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed.     His  work  ! 

That  laugh  seemed  to  reassure  her  in  some  way.  She 
smiled  down  at  him,  bent  over  him,  her  hair  blinded  him, 
and  then  her  lips  brushed  his. 

"Dear!"  she  said. 

He  held  her  close  to  him,  and  their  lips  met — hungrily, 
thirstily.  At  first  all  her  body  relaxed  into  the  embrace, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  peace  he  needed  flowed  into 
him  from  her  kiss,  from  her  arms,  her  body — rest,  the 
infinite  sweetness  of  rest.  .  .  .  And  then  she  seemed  to  grow 
frightened.  She  held  herself  away  from  him,  she  looked 
at  him  questioningly. 

But,  again  reassured,  she  bent  again,  and  surrendered 
herself  to  the  embrace.  But  something  in  the  exigence  of 
his  mood  came  to  her  even  in  this  surrender,  and  once  more, 
suddenly  and  coolly,  she  drew  herself  away. 

"What  w  the  matter?"  she  demanded,  looking  at  him  with 
alien  eyes.  She  bent,  not  tenderly,  and  took  his  shoulder, 
as  if  to  shake  his  secret  out  of  him. 

"The  matter  is,"  said  Felix,  "that  my  marriage  has  gone 
to  hell." 

3 

"What !"  The  exclamation  came  in  a  tone  of  utter  incred 
ulous  astonishment  from  the  girl  at  his  side,  who  sat  there, 
rigid,  as  though  frozen  by  that  news. 


358  The  Briary-Bush 

"Yes,  I  tell  you!"  he  cried.  "We've — busted  up  every 
thing — for  good  and  all." 

And  feeling  himself  uncontrollably  about  to  cry,  he  turned 
his  face  against  the  couch,  and  lay  shaken  with  convulsive 
strangling  sobs. 

The  girl  sprang  up,  and  looked  down  at  him.  She  had 
never  seen  him  cry.  She  had  not  known  that  he  could  cry. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  not  cried  very  many  times  in  his 
life,  and  he  did  not  know  how,  and  did  it  badly. 

He  looked  up  at  last,  brushing  his  eyes  with  his  coat- 
sleeve.  He  wanted  her  pity. 

He  saw  her  looking  at  him  with  haughty  anger.  Her 
whole  gesture  was  one  of  outrage.  When  she  saw  him 
look  up,  she  clenched  he**  fists,  and  said, 

"You  never  told  me — " 

"Never  told  you  ?"  His  anger  burst  out  against  her,  anger 
mixed  with  self-pity.  "What  did  you  expect?" 

She  turned  half  away  from  him  in  disdain. 

"Not  this !"  she  said. 

"No !"  he  said,  sitting  up.  "No,  you  little  idiot,  I  suppose 
you  didn't.  .  .  .  And  I  didn't  either.  Well — you  see." 

She  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  with  repugnance,  as 
if  she  were  looking  at  something  sick,  wounded,  or  diseased. 

"Yes,"  she  said  doubtfully,  "I  see.  .  .  ." 

She  turned  back  to  him,  her  hostility  gone,  and  a  mourn 
ful  look  in  her  eyes. 

"I  never  supposed,"  she  said  haltingly,  "that  you — " 

She  paused,  and  then  went  on, 

"—You  too—" 

Under  her  glance  he  straightened  up,  ashamed  of  himself. 
He  rose.  He  must,  he  supposed,  have  looked  silly.  .  .  . 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sorry  too — Felix,"  she  answered,  and  there  was  in 
her  tone  the  quality  of  a  farewell. 

There  was  something  bracing  at  this  moment  in  her  scorn 
ful  silence  as  she  let  him  walk  out  of  the  room.  .  .  .  He 
went  to  the  bathroom  and  washed  his  face ;  looked  at  him 
self  in  the  mirror :  was  the  face  he  saw  there  the  one  that 


The  God  and  the  Pedestal          359 

had  been  twisted  in  grotesque  sobbing  a  few  minutes  ago? 
No  one  would  have  guessed  it.  ...  He  looked  hard  at  that 
face,  for  some  sign  of  weakness.  But  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  weakness  had  been  burned  out  of  it  by  the  fire 
of  a  girl's  scorn.  It  was  a  face  indifferent  and  aloof  from 
sorrow,  with  amused  eyes  and  jauntily  smiling  mouth.  Yes, 
that  was  Felix  Fay  as  he  should  be. 

He  went  back  to  his  room,  tossed  his  Roget's  Thesaurus 
and  his  favourite  penholder  intq  the  wastebasket  with  the 
torn  manuscripts,  put  on  his  hat — and  then  noticed  his  stick 
in  the  corner. 

He  picked  it  up,  hung  it  over  his  arm,  turned  out  the 
gas,  and  went  out  whistling. 


Book  Six 
Wilson  Avenue 


LV.  The  Consolations  of  Philosophy 


COMING  out  on  the  street,  swinging  his  stick,  Felix 
was  vividly  conscious  of  the  outer  world — it  was 
as  if  the  curtain  had  just  risen  upon  a  stage  scene. 
The  shapes  of  the  trees  in  the  distance  had  all  the  interest 
of  a  beautifully  painted  set— artificial,  as  scenery  should 
be,  not  aping  nature,  but  symbolizing  it.  The  houses  that 
stood  beside  the  road  were  cardboard  shapes  that  suggested 
great  masses  of  brick  and  stone.  And  the  way  the  night  sky 
bent  down  at  the  street-end  to  touch  the  earth— that  was 
marvelous. 

The  whole  scene  was  refreshing.  It  had  the  beauty  of 
something  made  to  be  looked  at.  It  was  as  if  the  outer- 
world  were  no  longer  the  unnoted  background  of  a  drama 
in  which  he  was  a  baffled  participant:  he  had  stepped  out 
of  the  play  now,  he  was  a  spectator— he  could  look  on  and 
enjoy  the  spectacle. 

There  was  a  sense  of  vast  release  in  his  mind.  The 
burden  of  emotion,  of  pain,  of  grief,  of  anger,  the  intolerable 
burden  of  human  illusion,  was  lifted.  His  shoulders  felt 
lighter,  and  he  carried  himself  with  a  jaunty  air. 

A  man  passed  him — no  spectator  like  himself  of  this  play, 
but  a  participant  in  it,  a  man  to  whom  things  really  seemed 
to  matter.  With  a  tired  droop  of  the  head  and  shoulders, 
putting  one  foot  mechanically  before  another,  he  was  going 
home.  Two  girls  passed,  eagerly  talking  to  each  other. 
None  of  them  saw  him,  or  the  world  through  which  they 
moved — they  were  busy  acting  their  parts,  too  busy  think 
ing  about  yesterday  and  tomorrow. 

How  good  it  was  no  longer  to  have  a  part  to  play— to 
be  able  to  look  on,  full  of  curiosity !  He  was  like  a  dis- 

363 


364  The  Briary-Bush 

embodied  spirit  that  wanders  freely  upon  the  earth  without 
a  care.  The  world  was  beautiful.  All  the  time  that  he  had 
been  worrying  about  other  things,  it  had  been  beautiful — 
and  he  had  been  too  passionately  entangled  in  the  coil  of 
personal  emotions  to  notice.  .  .  .  The  crooked  branch  of 
an  elm,  from  which  all  but  a  few  leaves  had  fallen,  droop 
ing  black  against  the  luminous  sky— the  world  had  been 
full  of  such  things  all  along,  and  he  had  never  paused  to 
look  before. 

It  was  pleasant  to  have  a  mind  able  to  notice  little  things 
—like  the  fantastic  shadow  that  danced  along  the  sidewalk, 
growing  shorter  and  longer  and  dodging  about  in  front  and 
behind— a  mind  that  could  dwell  upon  light  things,  instead 
of  revolving  eternally  in  some  cycle  of  hope  and  fear.  A 
leisurely,  disinterested,  curious  mind ! 

As  he  walked,  his  thoughts  touched  lightly  upon  Rose- Ann 
—he  had  a  fleeting  memory-picture,  uncoloured  by  any  pain 
ful  emotion,  of  her  standing  on  the  balcony  of  that  house 
in  Woods  Point,  about  to  jump  off  into  the  snow-bank;  he 
sensed  her  as  a  creature  possessed  by  some  wish  which  she 
did  not  understand,  driven  on  by  it  to  delightful  and  absurd 
actions.  .  .  .  And  Give,  ironically  officiating  as  host  to  a 
bridal  pair  in  the  house  which  he  had  built  to  shelter  his 
own  happiness.  .  .  .  And  Phyllis,  holding  Clive  perpetually 
at  arm's  length,  because  he  was  not  utterly  a  god.  .  .  .  And 
himself,  strangest  shape  of  all,  taking  the  emotions  of  all 
these  other  characters  seriously  and  trying  to  adjust  his 
life  to  them !  They  were  like  people  in  a  play,  strange  and 
foolish,  beautiful  and  pitiful.  He  saw  them  all,  he  saw  his 
own  past  self,  with  a  delicate  and  appreciating  exactitude. 

But  they  did  not  matter — he  could  stop  thinking  of  them, 
and  look  at  the  nimbus  of  light  around  the  arc  lamp  on 
the  corner.  That  was  strange  and  beautiful,  too. 

To  be  a  spectator  of  the  spectacle  of  existence !  At  first 
that  was  enough.  But  presently  he  was  aware  of  a  vague 
desire  for  a  fellow-spectator.  The  desire  was  faint,  but 
faint  as  it  was  it  moved  his  steps  to  the  Illinois  Central  plat 
form,  and  presently  he  emerged  upon  Michigan  Avenue. 


The  Consolations  of  Philosophy     365 


That  evening  in  the  Artists'"  Theatre  there  was  a  rehearsal 
of  several  episodes  from  Schnitzler's  "Anatol,"  which  was 
to  be  the  second  bill  of  the  season.  At  midnight  Elva 
Macklin  saw  Felix  Fay  stroll  in  and  listen  to  the  jaded  end 
of  the  rehearsal  from  the  theatre's  one  tiny  and  inconvenient 
box. 

Felix  saw  her,  too,  and  realized  by  what  instinctive  wish 
he  had  been  led,  without  conscious  thought,  to  the  Artists' 
Theatre.  He  wanted  her  for  his  fellow-spectator  of  the 
spectacle  of  existence. 

He  saw  her  as  if  for  the  first  time.  He  had  never 
talked  with  her  much;  and  he  had  been  drunk,  on  dreams 
if  not  on  whiskey,  the  time  he  had  danced  with  her  at  the 
ball.  She  had  been  a  sort  of  dream-figure  to  him,  an  out- 
of-the-world  creature.  He  saw  her  now  clearly  enough— 
an  intense  young  egotist  in  her  every  word  and  gesture; 
no  dryad,  but  soulless  enough  for  all  her  human  nature— 
a  girl  who  still  kept  the  hardness  of  a  child  about  her. 
She  would  never  make  a  good  actress,  he  reflected ;  she  was 
too  much  herself;  she  was  acting  abominably  her  part  in 
this  Schnitzler  play,  but  with  her  own  special  charm,  the 
charm  that  made  her  what  she  was.  But  she  was  not  a 
person  to  pity.  He  liked  her  for  that.  He  would  talk 
to  her. 

A  few  moments  later,  as  Elva  Macklin  was  putting  on 
her  coat  to  go  home,  Felix  Fay  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
tiny  women's  dressing  room. 

The  others  had  gone,  she  was  there  alone. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "whoever  you  are  ...  and  you  may 
button  my  spats  if  you  want  to,  Felix  Fay.  I'm  too  tired, 
and  I  was  going  off  without  them." 

She  continued,  as  he  knelt  at  her  feet  and  twisted  the 
reluctant  buttons  one  by  one  into  place,  "I've  done  the 
circus  girl  for  hours,  over  and  over  again.  Gregory 
doesn't  like  the  way  I  do  it— and  I  don't  like  the  way 


366  The  Briary-Bush 

Jimmy  Taylor  does  Anatol.  Neither  does  Gregory,  for 
that  matter.  Everything's  gone  wrong  tonight.  .  .  . 
Gregory  gets  more  and  more  Napoleonic.  He  says,  'Stop! 
we'll  do  that  scene  all  over  again!'  Nothing  about  what's 
the  matter,  or  how  it  should  be  done — we  just  know  that 
it  doesn't  suit  him,  and  so  we  do  it  differently.  And  usually 
worse.  Then  he  frowns ;  he  bites  his  lip ;  he  even  stamps 
his  foot :  but  even  that  doesn't  do  much  good !" 

She  put  out  her  other  foot.  "Jimmie's  really  impossible 
as  Anatol.  He  looks  all  right — but  he  hasn't  any  spirit. 
You  just  can't  imagine  Jimmie's  having  six  mistresses.  He 
treats  me  as  though  I  were  his  aunt.  .  .  .  Gregory  wants 
me  to  do  the  circus  girl  'simply' — whatever  that  means.  I 
wish  he  would  condescend  to  explain,  instead  of  just  looking 
haughty.  .  .  .  I'm  awfully  tired.  .  .  .  Thanks.  I  don't 
feel  quite  clothed  without  my  spats." 

Felix  stood  up.  "Let's  go  somewhere  and  get  something 
to  eat,"  he  said. 

"I'd  like  to,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  to  go  home.  I'm 
too  tired  to  sleep."  She  buttoned  her  coat  about  her. 

It  was  a  boyish  coat,  and  she  wore  it  with  a  boyish  air. 
There  was  something  Puck-like  in  her  face,  something 
impish,  mischievous. 

"Have  you  a  nickname?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  startled.     "Why?" 

" What  is  it?" 

"Bobby.     Again,  why?" 

He  laughed. 

"Because  I  was  going  to  give  you  one  if  you  hadn't. 
I  was  going  to  name  you  Till  Eulenspiegel.  But  Bobby 
will  do  very  well.  I  shall  call  you  that,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"I  don't  mind.  But  you  may  regret  it. — Who  was  Till 
Eulenspiegel?"  she  asked. 

"A  celebrated  scamp. — Why  should  I  regret  it?" 

"We'll  have  to  number  our  questions  and  answers — we'ie 
getting  all  mixed  up.  Bobby  is  a  celebrated  scamp,  too. 
You  haven't  heard  of  her?  When  I'm  Elva  I'm  on  my 
very  best  behaviour." 


The  Consolations  of  Philosophy     367 

"Then  come  as  Bobby,  by  all  means!"  he  said. 

"It's  only  fair  to  warn  you  that  you  may  not  like  her  at 
all.  Some  people  don't." 

"I'm  sure  /  shall.     Come  along !"  he  laughed. 

"Wait  a  moment.  How  much  money  have  you  got? 
When  I'm  Bobby,  I  insist  on  paying  my  own  way.  But 
I've  only  carfare  home  tonight.  So  you'll  have  to  lend  me 
some." 

He  took  out  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket,  all  that  was 
left  of  the  two  weeks'  salary  after  paying  for  his  apartment, 
and  solemnly  divided  it. 

She  accepted  the  money,  and  then  handed  it  back.  "No, 
I  feel  like  being  recklessly  dependent  tonight.  I'll  let  you 
buy  my  dinner.  .  .  .  One  moment — I  have  to  turn  the 
lights  out.  Go  ahead,  I  can  find  my  way  out  in  the  dark." 

She  joined  him  in  the  hall  a  moment  later.  "The 
elevator's  stopped  running,"  she  said,  "we'll  have  to  walk 
down." 

Half  way  down  she  stopped.  "Let's  rest  and  smoke  a 
cigarette." 

She  lighted  her  cigarette  at  his  match,  and  then  asked, 
"What  brings  you  here  tonight?" 

"Idle  curiosity,"  he  said. 

She  puffed  on  her  cigarette  and  scrutinized  his  face  by 
the  glow  it  made  in  the  dark. 

"Something's  happened  to  you,"  she  said. 

"Right,"  he  answered  cheerfully. 

"Want  to  tell  me  your  troubles?"  she  asked  indifferently. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  haven't  any  troubles.  I've  ceased  to 
have  them.  That's  what's  happened  to  me." 

She  laughed  lightly.  "So  that's  it.  Well,  I'm  glad  you 
don't  want  sympathy.  I  was  afraid  you  might." 

"You  misjudged  me,"  he  said.  "Besides,  if  I  had  wanted 
sympathy,  would  I  have  come  to  you  ?" 

"No,  I  guess  you  do  know  me  better  than  that.  .  .  . 
Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me?" 

"Nothing  in  particular  of  you,"  he  said.  "I  just  want 
somebody  to  bum  around  with  tonight." 


368  The  Briary-Bush 

She  puffed  on  her  cigarette  again.  "You  don't  look  at  all 
broken-hearted,"  she  said. 

"Why  should  I  look  broken-hearted?" 

"I  hear  all  the  theatre-gossip.     I  suppose  it's  true  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  hear  the  theatre-gossip,  so  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  true  or  not.  Why  should  you  care?" 

"I  don't  care.  I'm  just  curious.  You  know,  you've  been 
looking  worried  and  unhappy  ever  since  I  first  saw  you — 
until  now.  At  first  I  thought  you  were  worried  about  the 
play;  but  when  it  was  a  success  you  looked  more  unhappy 
than  ever.  And  now — well,  the  transformation  is  astonish- 
ing!" 

"I  can  explain  that.  .  .  .  You  probably  have  in  your 
rooms — ' 

"My  room,"  she  corrected  him.  "A  quite  singular  room, 
in  every  sense." 

"In  your  room,  then,  you  probably  have  five  or  six  copies 
of  the  Rubaiyat,  presented  you  by  different  youths.  ..." 

"Yes,  all  with  a  pencil  mark  beside  the  'Book  of  Verses' 
verse.  Go  on." 

"Well,  in  that  poem  Omar  boasts  of  'striking  from  the 
Calendar  Unborn  Tomorrow  and  Dead  Yesterday.'  I've 
just  performed  that  same  astronomical  feat." 

"I  know  just  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "It's — it's 
like  getting  over  a  headache,  isn't  it?  ...  I'm  glad.  .  .  . 
Well,  let's  go  on." 

She  jumped  up. 

Out  in  the  street  he  asked  her,  "How  do  you  come  to 
know  so  much  about  it?  When  did  you  perform  Omar's 
astronomical  feat?" 

She  laughed. 

I?  Oh,  fully  twenty  years  ago — at  the  age  of  five!  .  . 
You  see,  up  to  that  time  I  had  been  the  only  child — 
the  reigning  princess,  in  fact.  And  then  a  little  brother 
came  along.  People  laugh  about  these  things1 — but  I  don't 
think  anything  in  later  life  can  hurt  worse  than  a  childish 
tragedy  like  that.  To  be  considered  the  most  wonderful 


The  Consolations  of  Philosophy     369 

being  in  all  the  world,  and  then — pushed  out  of  the  way. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  saw  that  my  reign  was  ended,  that  human 
beings  were  fickle,  and  that  my  heart  would  be  broken  if 
I  kept  on  caring.  So  I  stopped — and  I've  never  cared 
since.  Not  for  a  single  other  living  thing  in  all  the  world." 

"I  see  you  are  a  person  of  great  experience  in — not  caring. 
Twenty  years  of  it!  Tell  me,  how  does  it  work  out?" 

She  stopped  suddenly,  pulling  at  his  sleeve.  "Look!" 
she  said  with  apparent  irrelevance. 

He  looked  in  the  direction  of  her  upward  glance,  and 
saw  outlined  against  the  sky  a  curious  accidental  roof-line 
made  by  the  juxtaposition  of  two  buildings.  It  was  noth 
ing — and  it  had  the  pure  beauty  of  a  design  by  Hiroshige. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  gazing  at  it.  An  accidental  scrap  of 
beauty,  unseen  by  millions  of  passing  eyes,  and  only  revealed, 
it  seemed,  to  such  people  as  themselves!  He  gazed,  and 
the  knowledge  that  she  too  saw  it,  that  her  world  was  full 
of  such  moments,  and  that  they  could  share  them  together, 
satisfied  his  need  of  companionship.  He  pressed  her  arm 
closer  to  his  side. 

They  resumed  their  walk.  "You  can't  see  things  like 
that  if  you  care  about  people,"  she  said.  "And  that's  how 
it  works  out.  .  .  .  But  it's  nice  to  know  some  one  else  like 
that.  Only — I  don't  think  this  will  last,  with  you.  .  .  ." 

"Why?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know." 

"So  you  believe  I'll  go  back  to  caring — to  being  human, 
as  they  call  it — to  having  remorse  about  the  past  and  worries 
about  the  future,  to  being  all  tangled  up  in  unhappiness 
again !"  he  said  incredulously. 

She  laughed,  and  sang,  in  a  low  voice,  close  to  his  ear, 
the  lines  of  a  song  that  went  to  an  old  ballad  measure: 

"Oh,  the  briary-bush, 

That  pricks  my  heart  so  sore! 

If  I  ever  get  out  of  the  briary-bush 
III  never  get  in  any  more! 


370  The  Briary-Bush 

"You  think  you  won't,  Felix,  but  you  will !  People  do  go 
back  to  the  briary-bush.  You  have  to  learn  early,  to  stay 
out.  .  .  .  But  I'm  glad  you  came  to  see  me  while  you're  in 
this  mood.  You  know,  you  may  get  over  it  in  an  hour  or 
two !" 

"Wait  and  see!" 


LVI.  Eulenspiegel 


44     A     LL  right— I'll  wait.   ..." 

Z\      "Shall  we  sup  in  luxury  at  one  of  these  gilded 

1.  \.  hotels?" 

"Yes,  let's,"  she  said. 

They  went  to  the  grill-room.  It  was  gay  with  its  mid 
night  crowd,  an  orchestra  was  playing,  and  in  the  cleared 
space  couples  were  dancing.  The  waiter  found  them  a 
little  table  in  the  corner. 

"I'm  really  hungry,"  she  said.     "I  forgot  to  eat  dinner." 

"Silly  child !"  he  said.     "So  did  I." 

"Who's  a  silly  child?" 

"I  was  waiting  for  my  playmate." 

They  laughed. 

With  her  cloak  thrown  back  carelessly  on  the  chair, 
leaning  forward  with  bare  elbows  on  the  table,  her  black 
hair  tousled  about  her  curiously  slanting  temples,  her  blouse 
askew  over  one  shoulder,  she  was  indeed  very  much  a  child. 
And  he  felt  like  a  child  too,  and  rejoiced  in  her  as  a  careless 
and  happy  playfellow. 

"Let's  start,"  she  said,  ignoring  the  menu,  "with  all  the 
different  kinds  of  little  fishes." 

"Good.     And—"  he  consulted  the  menu—  "a  filet  mignon  ?" 

She  nodded.  "And  petit  pois?  .  .  .  And  then  what? 
Some  kind  of  salad,  I  suppose." 

"One  of  the  things  you  keep  pulling  apart  all  evening." 

"Yes— what  are  they  called?  Artichoke.  With  Holland- 
aise  sauce.  And  what  kind  of  cocktail?"  he  asked. 

"The  one  that  has  a  dash  of  electricity  in  it." 

"A  Daiquerai!"  he  affirmed. 

"Right." 

"Well,  that  will  do  to  begin  with.— Oh,  yes,  wine." 

37i 


372  The  Briary-Bush 

"Nothing  sweet,"  she  warned  him. 

"A  Sauterne,  then?" 

"That  will  be  nice,"  she  said. 

He  gave  the  order,  and  when  he  had  finished  turned  to 
her.  "You  know,"  he  said,  "it  always  makes  me  feel 
reckless  to  order  wine.  I'm  always  sure  that  I'm  not  going 
to  have  enough  left  to  tip  the  waiter." 

"I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way,"  she  said.  "It's  no  fun  to 
dine  with  people  who  are  blase  about  ordering  wine — 
unless  you  can  feel  wickedly  extravagant  about  it,  you  might 
just  as  well  drink  water.  The  thrill  is  all  in  the  idea, 
anyway.  I  think  wine  is  a  much  overrated  institution — 
so  far  as  its  effects  go.  ...  I  ordered  a  liqueur  once,  a 
beautiful  purple  thing  I  had  just  discovered — I  forget  the 
name  of  it;  I  ordered  it,  not  to  drink,  but  just  to  look  at — 
and  when  the  man  I  was  dining  with  called  my  attention 
to  my  neglect,  and  I  explained,  he  was  outraged!  .  .  . 
But  I  wish  they  would  bring  the  little  fishes — I  shan't 
neglect  them." 

"It's  nice,"  he  said,  "to  be  able  to  think  and  talk  about 
things  that  don't  matter." 

"Such  as  what?" 

"Such  as  little  fishes,  and  poetry.  I've  been  so  dread 
fully  serious-minded  for  a  long  time. — Is  Gregory  going 
to  put  on  'The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire'  ?" 

"He  hasn't  decided.     If  he  does—" 

"If  he  does,  you  must  play  Mary.  It  won't  be  Yeats's 
Mary,  but  it  will  be  something  very  exciting,  if  you  play  it." 

"I  hope  he'll  let  me." 

"Do  you  know  'On  Baile's  Strand'?" 

"He's  thinking  of  doing  that,  too.  I  haven't  read  it.  But 
I  hear  there's  nothing  in  it  for  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is !  There's  the  part  of  the  young  prince. 
It  wouldn't  be  a  half  bad  idea.  You're  quite  as  much  a 
boy  as  a  girl.  You'd  be  a  very  striking  young  prince." 

"Thank  you !" 

"However,  I  was  thinking  of  another  part  for  you — the 


Eulenspiegel  373 

part  of  the  warrior-queen  that  the  two  kings  talk  about. 
You  remember?" 
"No." 

"She  doesn't  actually  appear  in  the  play.     But  she  ought 
to.     I'd  like  to  write  you  a  play  about  her." 
"Tell  me  about  her !" 

"She  fights  like  a  man,  and  bears  a  love-child  to  a  soldier- 
king — and  then  makes  war  on  him.  He  is  speaking  about 
her  afterward,  in  Yeats's  play,  and  he  says  to  the  older 
king: 

"You  have  never  seen  her — ah !  Conchobar,  had  you  seen  her 
With  that  high,  laughing,  turbulent  head  of  hers 
Thrown  backward,  and  the  bowstring  at  her  ear, 
Or  sitting  at  the  fire  with  these  grave  eyes 
Full  of  good  counsel  as  it  were  with  wine, 
Or  when  love  ran  through  all  the  lineaments 
Of  her  wild  body.  .  .    " 

She  drank  in  the  lines  eagerly,  and  when  he  paused  she 
looked  at  him  gratefully.  "I'd  like  to  do  a  part  like  that," 
she  said. 

The  cocktails  came,  but  she  pushed  hers  aside.  "Tell  me 
some  more  about  her.  She  loves  and  hates  the  same  man? 
Does  he  understand  that — her  lover,  I  mean." 

"Perhaps  not  at  first — in  my  play,  he  wouldn't.  But  in 
Yeats's  play,  years  later,  he  does  understand.  When  the 
older  king  complains  that  even  his  former  sweetheart  makes 
war  on  him,  he  says : 

"No  wonder  in  that,  no  wonder  at  all  in  that. 
I  never  have  known  love  but  as  a  kiss 
In  the  mid  battle,  and  a  difficult  truce* 
Of  oil  and  water,  candles  and  dark  night, 
Hillside  and  hollow,  the  hot-footed  sun 
And  the  cold,  sliding,  slippery-footed  moon — 
A  brief  forgiveness  between  oppo sites 
That  have  been  hatreds  for  three  times  the  age 
Of  this  long  'stablished  ground." 
"A  kiss  in  the  mid-battle !"  she  repeated.     "That  is  lovely." 


374  The  Briary-Bush 

She  raised  her  cocktail.    "Here's  to  our  play !" 

They  drank. 

"Now,"  he  said,  a  little  embarrassedly,  "I  feel  that  I  shall 
have  to  write  that  play !" 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  for  a  moment.  "Don't  feel  that," 
she  said.  "I  know — people  dream  of  things  and  .  .  .  don't 
do  them.  I  shan't  hold  you  to  account.  But  it's  a  lovely 
dream — and  that's  what  I'm  drinking  to." 

"But  wouldn't  you  rather  have  the  play  than  the  dream?" 
he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  ...  By  the  time  you  wrote  it — I  would  be 
interested  in  something  else,  and  you  would  want  another 
girl  to  do  it.  Why  should  we  bother  with  promises? 
We're  not  that  kind.  ...  If  I  said  I  loved  you — and  I 
could  say  that  right  now — I  always  love  people  who  think 
of  lovely  things,  and  that  play  was  a  lovely  thing  to  think 
of — why,  I  wouldn't  expect  you  to  hold  me  to  account  for 
it  ...  later." 

"Do  you  love  me?"  he  asked,  in  a  casual  tone. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Here  are  the  fishes!  ...  Of  course  I  do. 
You  are  a  terribly  nice  person.  You  love  me,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Felix. 

The  waiter  went  away,  and  she  laughed.  "That  was  a 
test,"  she  said.  "A  man  who  can  talk  about  love  in  the 
presence  of  the  waiter  without  looking  awkward — !  But 
I  meant  it,  too.  .  .  .  These  are  good,  aren't  they?" 

"Delicious !  Especially  these  sprats.  I  don't  know  what 
a  sprat  is,  but  I'm  sure  this  is  one." 

"That's  another  thing — people  ought  to  be  able  to  talk 
about  love,  an»d  food,  and  art,  and  money,  in  the  same  tone 
of  voice.  Some  men  would  be  shocked  to  hear  me  discuss 
love  and  little  fishes  all  in  the  same  breath." 

"I  seem  to  be  passing  all  your  tests." 

"Yes — it  doesn't  even  make  you  nervous  to  be  compared 
with  other  men." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  there  are  other  men  in  the  world,"  said 
Felix.  "They  don't  interest  me,  but  I  don't  mind  your 
alluding  to  them." 


Eulenspiegel  375 

"So  long  as  it's  to  their  disadvantage !" 

"Or  any  other  way.  I  simply  can't  take  them  seriously. 
Men  seem  ridiculous  creatures  to  me." 

"I've  known  some  very  interesting  ones !" 

"You  thought  so  at  the  time.  A  pardonable  mistake. 
The  truth  is,  Bobbie  Eulenspiegel,  you  and  I  are  the  only 
truly  interesting  people  alive  in  the  world  at  this  moment." 

She  laughed  up  into  his  eyes.  "I  think  so  too,"  she 
said. 

She  had  suddenly  become  very  much  a  girl,  with  the 
light  of  a  feminine  magic  gleaming  in  her  mischievous  eyes. 

"Are  you  flirting  with  me?"  he  demanded. 

''How  did  you  guess?"  she  asked. 

The  orchestra  struck  up  again. 

"Shall  we  dance?"  she  said,  jumping  up  from  the  table. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Do  you  know,  the  last  time  I  danced 
with  you,  I  had  been  drinking,  and  thought  I  was  dancing 
with  a  childhood  playmate." 

"Aren't  I  your  childhood  playmate?"  she  asked  pausing 
at  the  edge  of  the  dancing  space. 

"No,  Serpent  of  the  Nile,"  he  said,  taking  her  in  his 
arms.  "And  you  aren't  a  dryad,  either,"  he  went  on,  as 
they  mingled  with  the  dancers.  "You  are  a  water-witch, 
that's  what  you  are.  You  dance  like  water  in  the  sunlight. 
You  are  an  exhalation  from  the  salt  sea  wave.  You  have  no 
body — which  is  even  worse  than  having  no  soul;  if  I  knew 
the  proper  magic  words  to  pronounce,  this  which  seems  to 
be  your  body  would  dissolve,  and  I  would  hold  in  my  arms 
only  a  handful  of  shining  mist.  You  are  really  not  here  at 
all — there  is  no  one  here  but  me,  talking  to  myself.  In  fact, 
now  I  think  you  must  be  somebody  that  I  invented  in  a 
fanciful  mood — a  quite  imaginary  person." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  number  of  contradictory  theories 
about  me,"  she  said. 

"Yes — the  only  thing  I  am  quite  sure  of  is  that  you  don't 
really  exist." 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  exist  ?"  she  mocked. 

"No,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I'm  not  sure." 


376  The  Briary-Bush 

"Perhaps  you  are  an  imaginary  person  that  I  invented," 
she  insisted. 

"If  any  one  could  invent  me,  I  think  you  might." 

"Oh,  easily!" 

"That  shows  how  little  you  know  me,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
think  you  invented  me,  after  all.  You  would  be  prouder  of 
me  if  you  had.  Masterpieces  like  that  are  not  thrown  off 
every  day." 

"Masterpiece?    A  mere  jeu  d'esprit!" 

"I  renounce  you  utterly,"  he  said.  "You  are  a  base 
pretender.  Besides,  you  are  too  young  to  have  thought  of 
such  things.  I  believe  you  said  you  were  twenty-five." 

"I  lied,  to  impress  you.  I  am  twenty-four.  How  old 
are  you  ?" 

"I  am  twenty-four,  too,"  he  said.  "Remarkable  coin-* 
cidence!" 

"Not  at  all.     I  am  really  twenty-seven." 

"Devil!     How  old  are  you?" 

"Older  than  you,  anyway." 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

"I  am  an  awful  liar,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  telling 
him  a  secret. 

"I  shall  distrust  every  word  you  say  henceforth." 

"Good— then  I  shall  always  tell  the  truth,  and  you'll  be 
no  wiser.  You  can't  hold  me." 

"Who  wants  to  hold  you  ?     Not  I !"  he  said. 

"Oh,  don't  you?" 

"What  would  I  do  with  you?  What  are  you  good  for? 
No,  I  don't  want  you.  Go  home,"  he  told  her. 

"Now  I  sha'n't." 

"All  right,  stay  then." 

"I've  a  rehearsal  at  ten  o'clock  tomorrow  morning,"  she 
remarked. 

"What's  that  to  me?" 

"I  ought  to  go  home  and  get  some  sleep." 

"Then   you   probably   won't." 

"No.  I  probably  won't.  .  .  .  There's  the  waiter  bringing 
our  food." 


Eulenspiegel  377 

"It  can  wait,"  he  said. 

"You're  in  no  hurry  to  get  home,  I  take  it?" 

"No." 

The  music  ended.     He  led  her  back  to  their  table. 

"Besides—"  he  said.  "I  didn't  tell  you  about  my  new 
home,  did  I  ?  It's  on  the  north  side." 

"Where?  I  live  on  the  north  side  too.  Think  of  us 
two  living  in  the  midst  of  Wilson  Avenue  respectability. 
It's  very  amusing.  ...  Is  it  the  dancing  or  the  cocktail 
that  gives  us  such  an  appetite?" 

"Or  the  fact  that  we  had  no  dinner,  perhaps?  Just  off 
Wilson  Avenue,  near  the  L  station.  A  dingy  bachelor 
apartment." 

"It  can't  be  worse  than  mine.  I  fear  I  have  no  talent 
for  home-making." 

"There's  a  dance  hall  just  across  the  street,"  he  said. 
"That's  why  I  left  home  tonight." 

"Why  let  that  annoy  you?     Why  not  dance  there?" 

"Yes,  why  not?     Will  you  go  and  dance  with  me?" 

Her  eyes  lit  up.     "When?" 

"Any  time.     I  imagine  it's  always  in  full  blast.     Tonight?" 

"Yes  !"     She  clapped  her  hands.     "Now  !" 

"Our  supper.  .  .  ." 

"What  of  it?  There  are  other  places  to  eat,  a  dog- 
wagon  will  do.  Come !"  She  rose,  her  eyes  dancing. 

He  rose  too,  throwing  his  napkin  on  the  table.  "Never 
put  off  till  to-morrow — 

He  helped  her  on  with  her  coat,  and  when  the  surprised 
waiter  came  with  the  wine,  he  demanded  his  check. 

"Yes,  sir.     And  the  wine,  sir?" 

"Give  it  to  me!"  said  the  girl. 

He  handed  it  over  with  a  dignified  gesture. 

"You  should  have  borrowed  a  corkscrew,  too !"  said  Felix, 
as  they  left  the  room. 

"I  didn't  want  the  wine,"  she  said.  "I  just  wanted  to 
walk  out  with  it  under  my  arm.  I  thought  you  might 
object." 

"Again  you  misjudge  me,"  said  Felix.     "You  can  do  all 


378  The  Briary-Bush 

the  foolish  things  you  want  to — but  don't  waste  your  time 
doing  them  to  see  whether  I  care.  I  don't  care.  You  can 
stand  on  your  head  here  on  Michigan  Avenue  if  you  like.  I 
sha'n't  mind." 

"Shouldn't  you?"  she  said.  "Well,  then,  if  I  may  do  as 
I  please,  then  I  sha'n't  do  anything  very  outrageous.  Would 
it  be  very  outrageous  to  visit  your  apartment  in  the  dead  of 
night  with  this  wine,  before  we  go  to  the  dance  across  the 
street  ?  Will  you  be  put  out  ?" 

"Probably,"  said  Felix.  "But  there  are  other  places  to 
live.  There  is  always  the  park  bench,  when  you  have  had 
me  turned  out  of  all  my  apartments." 

"Oh,  my  enthusiasm  for  you  won't  last  that  long.  Never 
fear !  .  .  .  Have  we  enough  money  to  taxi  up  there  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  let's  take  the  L.  It's  quicker.  Do  you  like  me, 
Felix?" 

"I  sha'n't  tell  you  !" 

They  climbed  the  elevated  steps,  and  waited  for  a  train. 
A  weary  policeman  waited  there,  the  only  other  person  on 
the  platform. 

"How  do  you  suppose  this  adventure  is  going  to  end?"  she 
asked,  as  they  walked. 

"Who  knows?"  he  answered.  "That's  the  fun  of  an 
adventure — one  never  does  know." 

She  sighed.  "If  I  thought  you  thought  you  knew — ! 
But  you  don't,  do  you?" 

"And  I  don't  care." 

"Amazing  youth!  I  can't  tease  you,  can  I?  So  I  won't 
try  any  more.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  go  home 
and  go  to  bed?" 

"I'm   sure  you   ought." 

"If  we  danced  all  night—" 

"I  think  I  will  kiss  you,  right  now.  The  idea  has  just 
occurred  to  me." 

Standing  on  the  platform  in  the  glare  of  the  electric 
lights,  under  the  amused  eye  of  the  policeman,  they  kissed 
each  other. 


Eulenspiegel  379 

"I  must  go  to  that  rehearsal  at  ten  o'clock!"  she  said. 

"You  shall  have  three  cups  of  the  best  coffee  the  Wilson 
Avenue  Tea  and  Coffee  Store  affords,"  he  said  smiling, 
"made  by  the  most  expert  hands." 

She  looked  frightened.  "Let's  walk  up  to  Wilson 
Avenue,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Good.  We  can  make  it  by  breakfast  time.  I'd  like  a 
nice  long  walk !" 

"No,"  she  said.  "There's  our  train  coming!  Besides,  I 
can  change  my  mind  several  times  more  on  the  way 
up.  .  .  ." 


"You  do  make  good  coffee,  Felix!"  she  said,  the  next 
morning.  "One  more  cup,  and  I  think  I'll  be  equal  to  the 
rehearsal.  No,  you  mustn't  come  with  me." 

"I  wasn't  going  to  go  with  you,  foolish  child.  I'm  merely 
going  to  escort  you  to  the  front  door." 

At  the  street  door  she  kissed  him.  "Don't  expect  me!" 
she  said.  "If  you  wait  for  me,  I  shan't  come  back." 

"And  if  I  don't?" 

"You'll  probably  find  me  curled  up  on  your  doorstep 
when  you  come  home.  Good-bye." 

He  watched  her  disappear  around  the  corner,  then  went 
out  and  looked  on  the  sidewalk,  and  in  the  street.  He  was 
looking  for  a  little  book  which  he  had  tossed  out  of  the 
window  the  night  before. 

He  did  not  find  it.  Somebody  had  picked  it  up  and 
carried  it  away.  .  .  .  But  that  was  better  than  finding  it 
crumpled  and  muddy  in  the  gutter.  It  was  the  last  thing 
binding  him  to  his  old  life,  and  it  was  just  as  well  that  it 
should  be  utterly  gone. 


LVII.  Three  Days 


THERE  are,"  writes  the  learned  Winckler  in  his 
History  of  Love,  "erotic  adventures,  or  misadven 
tures,  which  do  not  arise  from  any  real  emotion 
between  the  two  people  immediately  concerned,  but  are 
a  banal  reaction  from  the  recent — or  even  remote — -hurts  of 
some  other,  authentic  relationship.  Made  much  of  in 
modern  fiction,  these  misadventures  scarcely  deserve  such 
attention.  It  is  unprofitable,  even  for  the  philosophic  mor 
alist,  to  inquire  closely  into  the  details  of  such  baffling 
relationships ;  if  mere  flirtations,  they  are  adulteries  none 
the  less ;  and  if  adulteries,  they  still  remain  mere  flirtations. 
Lacking  as  they  do  any  personal  significance,  these  mis 
adventures  are  as  devoid  of  lasting  interest  to  others  as  to 
the  misadventures  themselves." 

With  all  due  deference  to  the  learned  Winckler,  it  may 
perhaps  be  suggested  that  the  lack  of  any  personal  signifi 
cance  in  such  relationships,  and  the  discovery  of  it  by  the 
persons  involved,  is  worthy  of  record.  .  .  .  There  is  a 
charm,  real  if  evanescent,  in  impersonality ;  and  at  times  the 
weary  mind  finds  in  this  charm  a  blessed  anodyne.  It  seems, 
at  such  times,  as  though  the  very  nothingness  at  the  heart 
of  such  a  relationship  were  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world.  A  wanderer  shipwrecked  in  a  tumultuous  tropic  sea 
might  .well  yearn  to  be  cast  up  on  some  arctic  shore.  Deeper 
than  the  demands  of  the  senses  is  the  yearning  for  the 
Snow  Princess,  whose  kisses  are  as  cool  as  snowflakes. 
There  is  no  fever  of  love  in  those  kisses ;  their  sweet  hard 
chill  is  like  the  sight  of  marble  contours ;  they  have  the  calm 
of  eternity  in  them. 

During  his  first  hours  with  Elva  Macklin,  it  had  seemed 

380 


Three  Days  381 

to  Felix  that  he  knew  the  profoundest  secret  of  human 
wisdom — the  vanity  of  desire.  He  desired  nothing  in  the 
world,  least  of  all  any  gift  from  his  light-hearted  companion 
in  Nirvana.  She  had  nothing  to  give;  and  whatever  she 
might  give  and  he  might  take,  it  was  still  nothing.  It  was 
strange,  how  like  fire  ice  could  be ;  but  fire  burns,  and  leaves 
nothing  the  same  as  before — it  transmutes,  or  destroys ;  and 
this  crystal  flame  left  them  both  as  they  had  been.  They 
felt  no  need  of  each  other;  and  they  could  not  be  disap 
pointed.  They  were  satisfied  with  themselves;  and  they 
could  be  content  to  remain  strangers  for  all  their  nearness. 
No  kiss  could  bridge  the  gulf  between  them;  they  did  not 
want  it  bridged;  and  if  they  kissed,  it  was  as  though  to 
prove  that  no  intimacy,  none  whatever,  could  shatter  their 
splendid  and  perfect  isolation,  no  mere  happy  human  close 
ness  merge  their  triumphant  individual  identities.  There 
was  a  defiance  in  their  kisses — they  were  proving  that  they 
could  be  to  each  other  everything  and  yet  nothing. 

It  was  quite  true  that  Felix  did  not  care,  when  Elva 
Macklin  went  off  to  her  rehearsal,  whether  he  ever  saw  her 
again ;  he  knew  she  would  return ;  but  it  made  no  difference. 
It  never  would  make  any  difference.  They  were  strangers ; 
they  would  remain  strangers  for  ever.  There  was  no  danger 
of  love. 

And  as  long  as  there  was  no  danger,  they  would  enjoy 
the  happy  charm  of  each  other's  strangeness.  .  .  . 

Felix  did  not  go  to  his  office ;  he  stayed  in  the  apartment, 
writing — writing  a  play.  It  was  the  same  play  he  had  been 
writing  ever  since  his  marriage ;  a  new  version,  and  different 
from  all  the  others.  Before,  he  had  written  fantastically  of 
people  as  he  wished  them  to  be;  now  he  wrote  of  them  as 
they  were.  He  knew,  now,  what  human  beings  were  like; 
himself  outside  the  boundaries  of  their  hopes  and  fears,  he 
understood  them,  pitied  them,  loved  them.  He  wrote  of 
himself  as  he  had  been — caught  hopelessly  in  the  briary- 
bush  of  human  passions.  .  .  .  Yes,  this  was  a  play  at  last. 
One  must,  it  seemed,  be  outside  things  to  understand  them. 

He  was  beginning  to  weary  of  this  warm  human  nature 


382  The  Briary-Bush 

in  which  his  imagination  was  immersed,  when  Elva  Macklin 
came,  suddenly.  .  .  . 

"Writing?"  she  said  indifferently. 

"Yes— a  play." 

"Is  there  a  part  for  me  in  it?" 

"No — not  in  this  one." 

She  talked  of  the  rehearsal.  He  put  his  manuscript  aside. 
.  .  .  She  did  not  care,  aside  from  the  question  of  a  part 
for  her,  whether  he  wrote  plays  or  not;  thank  heaven! 
She  did  not  care  whether  he  ever  became  a  playwright.  She 
did  not  care  if  he  ever  did  anything.  She  did  not,  the 
gods  be  praised,  believe  in  him! 

He  went  over  and  kissed  her. 


The  second  day  he  wrote  again  on  his  play,  all  day,  while 
again  she  went  to  rehearsals.  He  had  not  gone  to  the  office 
at  all.  He  mentioned  the  fact.  It  was  evident  that  she 
did  not  care.  Whether  or  not  the  Evening  Chronicle  had 
a  dramatic  editor  made  no  difference  to  her. 

She  talked  of  herself.  She  was  doing  her  part  in  "Anatol" 
magnificently,  she  said. 

He  pressed  her  hand,  glad  that  she  was  so  pleased  with 
herself.  She  did  not  need  his  rea-ssurance.  He  could  not 
have  given  it.  He  did  not  believe  that  she  would  ever  do 
that  part  well. 

He  remarked  that  he  was  writing  a-  great  play.  She 
smiled,  and  patted  his  hand.  Probably  she  did  not  believe 
it.  Anyway,  she  didn't  care,  so  long  as  he  didn't  need 
sympathy  and  encouragement.  .  .  . 

They  were  very  happy.  .  .  . 

3 

The  end  came  suddenly,  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth 
day.  They  were  having  coffee. 

She  yawned,  and  asked  for  another  cup.  "I  don't  think 
I'll  come  back  today,"  she  said  casually. 


Three  Days  383 

He  laughed.     He  couldn't  help  it. 

"You,  too?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said  frankly.  "I'm  getting  interested  in  my 
play.  ...  I  suppose  I've  been  rather  a  nuisance,  talking 
about  that  play!" 

"And  you're  bored  hearing  what  a  great  actress  I  am!" 

she  said. 

They  smiled  at  each  other. 

"It's  been  very  nice!"  she  said. 

"You  are  a  darling !"  he  told  her. 

"I'll  pay  you  a  real  compliment,"  she  said.  "You  are 
as  much  of  an  egotist  as  I  am.  I  like  you.  I  can  go  off 
now  and  think  about  my  part  and  never  give  you  another 
thought.  .  .  .  And  you  won't  mind." 

"No.  But  I,  on  the  contrary,  shall  think  about  you  often 
— and  put  you  in  a  play  sometime." 

They  chatted  until  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  to  the 
rehearsal. 

"Will  you  button  my  spats?"  she  asked. 

He  knelt  and  pried  the  buttons  into  their  eyelets. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  lifted  her  face  to  be  kissed. 

For  the  first  time,  in  this  good-bye  kiss,  there  was 
expressed  a  real  affection.  At  least,  they  were  friends 
now.  They  wished  each  other  well.  They  cared — a  little 
—about  each  other.  Doubtless  that  was  why  they  had  begun 
wanting  each  other's  praise,  begun  to  be  annoyed  at  each 
other's  indifference.  They  were  friends  already— they  might 
perhaps  become  more  than  friends.  That  was  why  they 
were  not  going  to  see  each  other  any  more. 

It  had  been  perfect.     It  must  not  be  spoiled. 

"Good-bye,  Felix  dear." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her. 

"Good-bye,  Bobbie  Eulenspiegel." 

"I  do  like  you." 

"I  like  you,  too." 

They  kissed  again,  and  she  went. 

He  turned  back  to  his  play. 


384  The  Briary-Bush 


Late  that  evening  he  finished  the  rough  draft  of  his  second 
act.  That  was  as  far  as  he  could  go.  He  had  put  into 
his  characters  all  he  knew  of  them.  The  rest  of  the  play 
would  wait.  He  put  his  manuscript  away. 

And  as  he  put  it  away,  the  thoughts  that  it  had  shut 
out  by  its  dream-like  presentment  of  them  began  painfully 
to  crowd  in  upon  him.  .  .  .  Elva  had  been  right ;  not  caring 
was  only  a  mood  with  him — and  it  was  already  over.  She 
had  predicted  that  it  would  last  three  hours.  It  had  lasted 
three  days. 

All  the  emotions  that  he  had  forgotten  and  escaped  rushed 
in  to  hurt  and  confuse  him.  His  little  moment  of  careless 
freedom  was  over.  .  .  .  Tomorrow  he  would  go  back  to  the 
office  and  see  if  he  still  had  a  job. 

And  what  had  been  his  marriage  ...  it  could  not  be 
ended  like  this.  He  could  not  simply  run  away.  They 
would  have  to  meet  and  talk.  Make  arrangements.  .  .  . 
The  obsequies  of  marriage.  .  .  . 

The  past  and  the  present  were  back  again  on  his  calendar. 


LVIII.  Rendezvous 


GOING  back  to  the  office  the  next  morning,  Felix 
had  the  sense  of  his  absence — so  momentous  to  him 
self — not  having  been  particularly  remarked.  .  .  . 
True,  there  had  been  no  new  plays  opening  that  week ;  and 
the  editorial  page  could  get  along  without  his  assistance. 
But  it  was  strange  to  go  back  to  the  real  world  and  find 
that  it  does  not  know  you  have  been  away !  .  .  .  He  worked 
all  morning,   distractedly,   on  a   column    for  the   Saturday 
page,  and  arranged  a  layout  of  photographs  of  actors  and 
actresses. 

He  had  glanced  that  morning  into  the  busy  editorial 
writers'  room,  and  Give  had  not  been  there.  He  had  been 
assailed  by  a  vague  feeling  of  self-reproach,  as  his  imagina 
tion  presented  to  him  the  possible  meaning  of  that  absence. 
He  had  quite  amazingly — it  now  seemed  to  him — left  Give 
out  of  his  considerations  altogether.  How  all  this  might 
affect  Give  had  simply  not  occurred  to  him.  .  .  .  They  all 
of  them  had  had  a  way  of  treating  each  other  as  super-people.^ 
They  had  disdained  the  notion  of  sparing  each  other's  feel 
ings  ;  they  had  not  even  been  willing  to  admit  that  they  had 
feelings  which  might  require  to  be  spared!  .  .  .  But  there 
was  no  reason  to  believe  that  Give,  any  more  than  himself, 
should  come  out  of  this  emotional  earthquake  unscathed. 

At  noon  he  went  in  to  ask  about  his  friend.     But  as  soon 
as  he  entered,  Willie  Smith  looked  up  and  said, 

"Oh,  here  you  are !     Well,  tell  us  what  it's  all  about !" 

"What  what's  about?"  Felix  asked,  confused. 

"Give's  getting  married.     You  know  about  it,  don't  you? 
You  don't?    Well,  I  thought  you'd  know  all  about  it!" 

"Is  he  married?" 

385 


386     .  The  Briary-Bush 

"Where's  that  card,  Hosmer?  Well,  I'm  surprised.  I 
thought  you'd  be  in  on  it. — Can't  you  find  that  card? 
He's  married  all  right.  To  some  girl  named — I  forget  her 
name.  And  you  didn't  know  anything  about  it !  Well,  he 
had  us  guessing  all  week.  He  didn't  show  up,  and  we 
thought  he  must  be  sick.  And  then  Hosmer  saw  in  the 
morning  papers  that  a  license  had  been  issued  to  John  C. 
Bangs  and  some  girl.  Hosmer's  entitled  to  all  the  credit 
for  deducing  that  John  C.  Bangs  was  our  old  friend  Give — 
I  wouldn't  believe  it.  And  then  the  announcement  came. — 
Oh,  here  it  is,  right  here.  Have  you  got  any  idea  who  the 
girl  is?" 

Felix  took  the  card,  on  which  was  written  in  Give's  small, 
precise  handwriting: 

Phyllis  Nelson  and  Clive  Bangs 

announce  their  marriage 

at  the  City  Hall  in  Chicago 

Friday,  November  twenty-eighth 

"Today !"  he  said.  "Yes.  .  .  .  I  know  the  girl.  Will  you 
give  me  the  card?  I  suppose  there's  one  waiting  for  me 
at  home,  but  I'd  like  to  have  this  now." 


California!  .  .  .  Rose-Ann  went  about  her  work  that 
same  morning  with  the  thought  always  in  her  mind.  Going 
away  would  simplify  everything.  In  California  one  could 
start  one's  life  anew. 

There  was  no  need  to  make  a  fuss  about  anything.  She 
had  her  work.  Life  would  go  on.  She  would  make  new 
friends.  .  .  .  Yes,  going  away  made  it  easy.  She  wouldn't 
even  have  to  plan  for  a  new  place  to  live,  if  she  were  going 
away  soon;  she  could  just  take  a  room  anywhere,  and  not 
tell  any  one  where  it  was.  Or  she  might  even  stay  on  in 
the  studio.  It  was  only  for  a  little  longer. 

Yes,  she  would  stay  there;  she  wouldn't  hide  herself. 
Nobody  need  pity  her.  After  all,  she  and  Felix  had  been 
drifting  apart  for  a  long  time;  they  had  been  seeing  less 


Rendezvous  387 

and  less  of  each  other ;  the  break  had  come  gradually ;  this 
was  merely  the  end.  There  were  some  things  about  it  that 
she  did  not  understand — but  no  matter.  She  accepted  the 
situation  as  it  stood. 

In  that  spirit  of  bravado,  she  went  that  noon  to  the  little 
Hungarian  restaurant  where  she  and  Felix  and  Clive  and 
Phyllis  had  lunched  so  often.  She  went  to  her  accustomed 
table,  and  sat  there,  remembering  what  Clive  had  once  said 
and  they  had  all  laughingly  agreed  to,  in  the  days  when  they 
believed  themselves  wonderful  young  people  who  could  talk 
about  anything — that  if  anything  ever  happened  to  them  of 
the  sort  that  "couldn't  be  discussed,"  they  would  come  here 
and  discuss  it  "in  the  teeth  of  God  and  Nature." 

Well,  she  was  here  and  they  were  not. 

She  wondered  at  little  at  Clive's  absence.  Was  he  off 
breaking  his  heart  somewhere?  Or  had  he,  as  they  had  all 
boasted  of  themselves,  no  heart  to  break?  At  all  events,  she 
had  stood  her  ground. 

Some  one  entered,  and  she  looked  up,  as  of  old  habit  when 
she  arrived  first. 

It  was  Felix. 


o 

She  sat  quietly  and  waited  for  him.  He  came  over, 
seeming  glad  to  see  her,  and  slouched  into  a  chair.  "I 
wondered  if  I'd  find  you  here,"  he  said. 

"I  wondered  if  you'd  come!"  she  said.  She  was  aston 
ished  to  find  in  herself  no  emotion  except  that  of  being  glad 
that  he  had  come — simply  that. 

"Last  night,"  he  said,  "I  wanted  to  come  to  see  you.  And 
I  was  afraid  to,  I  guess.  Because  of  things  I  didn't  want 
to  tell  you  about— that  I  thought  you  wouldn't  understand." 

The  table,  that  place  dedicated  to  the  telling  of  impossible 
truths,  still  had  for  them  its  old  magic.  "Last  night,"  she 
said,  smiling  ruefully,  "I  set  the  alarm  clock  to  go  off  at 
midnight.  ...  If  you  didn't  come  by  then,  I  was  going  to 
forget  you." 

"And  I  didn't  come,"  he  said. 


388  The  Briary-Bush 

"No.  ...  I  waited  till  the  clock  went  off.  I  said  that 
if  you  came  before  that  I  would  forgive  you  everything — 
anything." 

"How  could  I  come?"  he  asked.  "Before  one  can  be 
forgiven,  one  must  be  ashamed.  And  I  wasn't  ashamed. 
I'm  not  now." 

"Why  should  you  be?"  she  asked. 

"But  you  don't  know,"  he  said.  "Or  do  you?  Have 
you  seen  Phyllis?" 

"Phyllis?     No!" 

"Neither  have  I — for  three  days."' 

"But  I  thought—" 

"No  you  didn't."  He  leaned  forward.  "Tell  me — did 
you  ever  believe — not  your  mind,  but  with  your  emotions ! — 
that  I  was  in  love  with  Phyllis?  Were  you  ever  really 
jealous  of  her?  Did  you  ever  take  her  seriously,  as  your 
rival?" 

"No— not  the  real  Phyllis— no.  The  real  Phyllis  I  liked, 
and  was  sorry  for  and  .  .  .  perhaps  a  little  afraid  of— 
but  not  as  a  rival.  I  was  jealous  of  the  Phyllis  who — who 
existed  only  in  your  mind." 

"My  illusion  of  her,  yes.     But  why?" 

"Felix,  you  robbed  me  to  give  to  that  illusion.  You  loved 
in  her  what  you  refused  to  see  in  me  to  love.  I  might  have 
been  all  that  she  was  to  you — and  you  wouldn't  let  me! 
When  you  spoke  of  her,  I  kept  thinking,  'He  might  say 
those  things  of  me !' — and  you  might,  much  more  truly." 

"Then  why  did  you  push  me  into  her  arms — into  the 
arms  of  the  real  Phyllis  ...  the  one  you  were  afraid  of! 
Because  you  knew  she'd  hurt  me?  Was  that  it?" 

They  were  talking  in  the  eager  low  tones  of  their  accus 
tomed  discussion,  cut  off  by  the  influences  of  this  spot  from 
any  disturbing  sense  of  outer  things — alone  in  an  enchanted 
solitude,  a  magic  circle  into  which  none  but  the  waiter  could 
intrude. 

"Hurt  you?"  A  look  of  tenderness  shone  fleetingly  in 
Rose- Ann's  eyes,  half -contradicted  by  a  triumphant  smile. 
"Did  she  hurt  you  ?  I'm  sorry,  Felix." 


Rendezvous  389 

"Are  you?" 

"No— I'm  glad!  I  wanted  you  to  be  hurt!  I  wanted  to 
punish  you — for  dreaming  of  her — punish  you  by  making 
you  find  out.  .  .  ." 

"It  would  serve  you  right  if  the  illusion  had  turned  out 
to  be  true  after  all,  wouldn't  it?" 

"I  thought  it  had,  Felix.     What  happened?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly.     But  look  at  this!" 

He  took  the  card  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  before  her. 

At  that  moment  the  waiter  came  up,  bowing  them  welcome, 
"You  haf  not  been  here  for  many  days  now,"  he  said. 
"I  begin  to  think  you  desert  us!  Haf  you  your  order 
ready?" 

"You  know  what  we  want,"  said  Felix  absently. 

"Yes,  sir.  Everything  shall  be  as  always !"  He  beamed 
and  ceased  to  exi-st. 

Felix  turned  again  to  Rose-Ann,  who  sat  staring  quietly 
at  the  card. 

"You  aren't  surprised?"  he  asked. 

"I  feel  that  I  knew  it  all  along,  somehow!"  she  said. 

"Yes,  so  did  I.  ...  That's  the  queer  thing.  All  this 
other—" 

"Was  just  Phyllis's  game  with  Clive.  I  don't  mean  she 
did  it  on  purpose.  She  couldn't  help  it !" 

"It  was  Clive's  game  too,"  he  insisted. 

"In  a  sense,  yes.  .  .  .  She  tormented  him,  ran  away  from 
him — and  played  up  to  you — all  for  Clive's  sake.  .  .  .  I'm 
sorry,  Felix!" 

"For  me?  You  needn't  be.  You  were  victimized  too. 
By  your  pride — just  as  I  by  rrvy  vanity!" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "and  now— at  last— they  can  have  their 
happiness !" 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  contemplating  the  tragic 
farce  in  which  they  had  acted  their  tragi-comic  parts. 

"So,"  he  said  ironically,  "it  was  to  make  their  marriage 
possible  that  we  were  so  busy  destroying  our  own!" 

"No— I  won't  have  that.  If  she's  hurt  you,  I'm  sorry, 
Felix ;  I  really  am.  But  I  can't  think  of  us  just  as  helpless 


390  The  Briary-Bush 

victims.  Why  did  we  do  it?  We  have  our  own  quarrel, 
Felix." 

"Yes — a  quarrel  in  which  no  one  else  counts.  I  know. 
But  first  let  me  explain.  She  did  hurt  me.  But  I  found 
consolation." 

"In  whom?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"Elva  Macklin." 

"That  queer  egotistic  little  theatre-waif!     Felix!" 

"Say  what  you  like — I'm  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"You  couldn't  love  her!" 

"No — I  never  pretended  to.     Nor  she." 

"I'm  ashamed  for  you,  Felix,  if  you're  not!" 

"Be  ashamed,  then.     I  can't  be.     I've  tried." 

"Why  try?" 

"People  that  are  ashamed — can  be  forgiven." 

"But  I  can't  understand  it.  .  .  ." 

"Neither  can  I." 

"If  it  had  been  some  one  you  loved — " 

"You  might  have  lost  me." 

"I've  lost  you  now,"  she  said  sadly. 

"No." 

"Yes." 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing  I  am  ashamed  of.  No — I  don't 
know  whether  I  can  or  not.  It's  too  silly." 

"Tell  me." 

"I'll  tell  it  backwards.  .  .  .  This  morning  I  found  a  bottle 
of  wine  in  my  apartment — the  relic  of  that  orgy  of  which 
you  are  so  scornful.  It  was  unopened.  I  decided  to  make 
a  present  of  it  to  my  landlady.  She  thanked  me  and 
rummaged  on  a  shelf  and  gave  me  in  return  a  book — a 
book  with  my  name  in  it  that  she  had  found  in  her  area- 
way.  She  had  been  saving  it  for  me.  .  .  .  That's  the  end 
of  the  story.  Here's  the  book." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  soiled  copy  of  the  Bab  Ballads. 
She  gazed  at  it. 

"Oh!  you  took  it  with  you?" 

"To  my  new  home,  yes — to  remember  you  by.  But  wait 
It  did  make  me  remember  you — too  well — and  so  I  flung 


Rendezvous  391 

it  out  the  window.  That's  what  I  am  ashamed  of,  Rose- 
Ann.  I  know  it's  absurd.  But  we're  telling  each  other  the 
truth.  .  .  .  And  it's  not  Elva,  nor  anything  else — but  just 
what  I  did  to  that  book,  that  I  want  to  ask  your  forgive 
ness  for.  .  .  ." 

"Was  she  there?" 

"Yes.     That  was   why." 

"I'm  glad  you  did  it!" 

"You  don't  understand.  That  book — it's  more  than  just 
you,  Rose-Ann :  it's  all  you  stand  for  to  me.  ...  I  wanted 
to  get  rid  of  it  all." 

"What  do  I  stand  for,  to  you?" 

He  thought  a  moment,  and  then  answered,  as  if  the  word 
had  pushed  itself  up  out  of  the  deeps  of  his  mind. 

"Reality." 

"Merely  that?"     Her  voice  was  disdainful  and  challenging. 

He  took  up  its  challenge. 

"No — more  than  that.     Pain.     You  stand  for  that." 

"I?" 

"And  heartbreak." 

"I?" 

"And  yesterday  and  tomorrow." 

"And  am  I,"  she  demanded  quietly,  "never  to  stand  for 
any  of  the  beautiful  things? — Must  you  find  them — or 
think  you  find  them — in  Phyllis  .  .  .  and  Elva?  .  .  ." 

He  felt  as  though  they  had  reached  the  crux  of  their 
discussion  at  last.  And  he  felt,  too,  that  it  was  a  perilous 
moment.  He  could  sense  the  forces  of  an  intense  resistance 
gathering  in  her  mind. 

"Yes,  that's  our  quarrel,"  he  said. 

"What?" 

He  spoke  with  a  sudden  anger,  only  half  repressed. 

"You  won't  help  me.  You  never  have.  You  tell  me 
lies.  .  .  ." 

"Felix!" 

"Yes,  you  do.  And  I — I  believe  you,  because  it  is  you 
who  tell  them.  Lies  about  life." 

"What  have  I  told  you?" 


392  The  Briary-Bush 

'That  I  could  be  free.  I  was  free,  Rose-Ann.  With 
Elva.  For  three  days.  That  was  quite  enough.  And  that's 
why  I  am  not  ashamed  or  sorry.  I  learned  something 
from  her  that  you  refused  to  tell  me." 

"What  did  you  learn— from  her?" 

"That  I  don't  want  freedom." 

"Don't  you?"  she  mocked  gently.     "The  truth,  Felix!" 

"Oh,  it's  beautiful  enough!  As  death  is  more  beautiful 
than  life.  As  for  me,  after  a  little  cupful  of  death,  I  prefer 
pain  and  heartbreak.  I  prefer  you." 

"But — it's  as  if  you  wanted  me  to  make  you  unhappy, 
Felix.  .  .  .  That's  what  you  are  saying!" 

"Isn't  it  true  ?  You  have  made  me  unhappy.  And  happy, 
too,  Rose-Ann.  The  two  things  go  together.  I  want  them 
both.  Not  this  mad,  mystical  peace  that  is  like  death." 

"The  mad  mystical  peace  of  death,"  she  repeated.  "You 
make  it  very  alluring,  Felix.  One  gets  tired  of  life.  .  .  . 
Just  as  you  got  tired  of  me.  But  perhaps — perhaps  I  am 
not  what  you  think  I  am.  Perhaps  I  can  understand  the 
joys  of  a  little  cupful  of  death — I,  too." 

The  waiter  arrived  with  a  savoury  stew.  He  uncovered 
the  dish  with  a  flourish.  It  reeked  of  nutritiousness.  They 
stared  at  it  helplessly.  The  waiter  went  away. 

"I  can't  eat,"  Rose-Ann  said  appealingly. 

Svmpathetically  he  passed  her  a  cigarette. 

"Felix,"  she  said,  "I  know  what  you  think  you  want.  It's 
like  that  stew.  You  ought  to  want  it ;  but  you  don't.  You 
want  coffee  and  cigarettes  and  talk  and  poetry — not  the 
solid  food  of  life.  .  .  .  You  try  to  fool  yourself.  And  you 
try  to  fool  me." 

She  paused  and  then  went  on  with  sudden  passion, 
"You've  accused  me  of  lying  to  you.  It's  you  who  have 
lied!  Whose  fault  is  it  if  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said — that 
time  ?  You've  never  been  honest  with  me.  You  were  never 
willing  to  face  the  future.  I  tried  to  talk  with  you,  but  you 
wouldn't.  You  made  me  feel  that  I  was  wrong.  And  so 
I  tried  to  believe  differently  about  our  marriage.  And 


Rendezvous  393 

when  the  real  truth  came  out — yes,  the  truth! — I  wasn't 
prepared  to  meet  it.  I  was  a  coward. — Perhaps  I'm  a 
coward  still.  I  don't  know.  But  I  know  this — I'm  not 
willing  to  do  what  you  say  you  want  me  to  do — bind  you, 
tame  you,  keep  you.  No !  I  won't  be  ...  a  wife" 


LIX.  Unanswered  Questions 


FELIX   smiled   at  her.     "Nor  even  a  woman,   Rose- 
Ann?" 
"If  that's  what  being  a  woman  is,  no.     But  you're 
mistaken.     A  woman  can  be  something  else  besides  that." 

"So  it  seems.  I  always  had  the  notion  that  they  under 
stood  life  better  than  I  did.  But  I'm  mistaken,  I  guess." 

"Would  you  like  to  be  my  keeper?"  she  flashed  out. 
"Would  you  want  to  guard  and  watch  after  me,  and  keep 
me  in  the  paths  I  should  go  in  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  "So  that— that  is  what  you 
want?"  he  hazarded. 

For  a  moment  that  seemed  to  him  the  truth  hidden 
behind  all  Rose-Ann's  evasions.  But  before  he  had  time 
to  read  confirmation  in  her  startled  eyes,  the  waiter  came  up. 

"Is  there  anything  else?— You  don't  like  the  stew  today?" 

He  stood  there,  a  statue  of  injured  pride,  looking  at  the 
neglected  dish. 

"It's  a  noble  stew,"  said  Felix.  "Nothing  wrong  with  the 
stew.  Bring  our  coffee." 

"Yes,  sir.     Shall  I  take  away  the  stew?" 

"Please." 

He  bore  it  away  with  a  mournful  air. 

2 

Rose- Ann  was  sitting  back  in  her  chair  with  the  air  of  the 
discussion  having  become  too  absurd  to  go  on  with. 

Felix  looked  inquiry. 

"How  little  we   know  each  other  after  all,"   she  said. 

"Meaning?" 

"Have  you  forgotten  what  you  said?     I  hope  so.   ... 

394 


Unanswered  Questions  395 

Felix,  if  I  wanted  those  things  from  my  lover  .- .  .  to  be 
kept  and  guarded  .  .  .  would  I  have  chosen  you?" 

She  dealt  the  blow  lightly,  looking  away  from  him. 
He  paled  a  little.  "Perhaps  not,"  he  said  sullenly.  And 
then — "Forgive  me  for  being  ridiculous." 

"I  only  meant,"  she  said,  still  looking  away,  "tlv  t  I  don't 
want  to  spoil  you.  I  like  you  as  you  are.  .  .  .  And  if  ».ou 
insist  upon  being  taught  the  cave-man  virtues,  why  you  will 
have  to  get  some  other  woman  to  teach  them  to  you.  I 
decline  the  office." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,     "I   sha'n't  ask  you  again.' 

3 

"It's  just  as  well  the  way  it  has  turned  out,"  she  said. 
"We  might  have  made  ourselves  miserable  trying  to  please 
each  other.  Now  we  can  be  ourselves." 

"And  what  is  your  notion  of  that?" 

"For  me — freedom." 

He  smiled  incredulously,  scornfully. 

"I've  been  trying,"  she  said,  "against  all  my  principles,  to 
be  a  wife — for  nearly  two  years.  We  both  agree  that  I  was 
a  failure  at  it.  I  shall  never  try  to  be  a  wife  again, 
Felix.  .  .  .  As  for  freedom — You  speak  as  one  who  knows 
what  it  is.  I  have  still  to  find  out.  Do  you  think  you  can 
forbid  me  my  little  cupfuls  of  mad,  mystical  peace?" 

"Your  coffee,"  said  the  waiter. 

"If  I  choose  to  have  adventures,  who  are  you  to  say  No 
to  me  ?"  she  said  mockingly. 

Felix  did  not  answer. 

4 

"My  paper  is  moving  to  Los  Angeles  this  winter,"  Rose- 
Ann  said  presently,  in  a  casual  tone. 

"And  I  suppose,"  he  replied,  in  an  equally  casual  way, 
"that  you  are  going  along.  ..." 

"I  hope  so,"  she  said.  "The  details  aren't  settled  yet, 
but  I  expect  to  go.  ...  Perhaps  very  soon." 


396  The  Briary-Bush 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you/'  he  remarked,  "that  I  am  writing 
another  play." 

"I  should  like  to  see  it  before  I  go.  Won't  you  come  in 
to  see  me  occasionally?  I'm  going  to  stay  in  the  studio 
until  I  leave.  There's  no  reason  why  we  can't  be  friends." 

"None  whatever,"  he  said. 

"I'm  glad  we've  had  this  talk,  Felix.  Talk  does  straighten 
things  out,  doesn't  it?  And  now  I  must  hurry  back  to  the 
office.  You  will  come  and  see  me?" 

"Yes.     I'll  stay  and  finish  my  coffee  if  you  don't  mind." 

She  went  away,  and  he  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  smoking 
cigarettes. 


LX.  A  Leave-taking 


ROSE-ANN  left  for  Los  Angeles  during  the  Christmas 
holidays.     During  the  month  that  had  elapsed  before 
her  departure,  Felix  had  been  to  see  her  several  times 
a  week.  .  .  .  There   is  something  disconcerting  in   finding 
oneself  treated  by  one's  wife  as  a  new  acquaintance — in  a 
politely    friendly    manner,    quite   as    she   treats   any   other 
guest.     He  had  gone  away  more  than  once  secretly  enraged, 
swearing  that  he  would  not  go  again;  at  other  times  it 
seemed  to  him  a  prodigious  joke. 

To  knock  at  the  door  of  his  own  studio;  to  sit  as  a 
guest  upon  a  chair  he  had  painted  with  his  own  hands ;  that 
was  sufficiently  strange.  To  invite  formally  to  dinner — in 
order  not  to  be  merely  one  of  several  of  her  friends  and 
admirers,  in  order  to  have  a  word  with  her  alone — the  girl 
with  whom  one  has  talked  all  night  more  nights  than  one 
could  remember:  that  was  stranger  still.  But  to  be  met  at 
the  door,  when  you  came  to  your  studio  a  liule  early  to 
escort  her  to  that  dinner,  by  a  rather  shy  startled  figure  in  a 
scarlet  dressing  gown  well-known  to  you,  but  now  clasped 
with  firm  fingers  at  her  bosom,  and  asked  to  wait  before  the 
fire  while  she  finished  dressing  behind  the  screen  at  the  back, 
in  a  tone  which  cancelled  utterly  the  countless  intimacies 
that  you  have  shared — that  was  the  strangest  of  all.  .  .  . 
Was  it  any  wonder  that,  having  thus  achieved  the 
opportunity  for  a  word  or  two  alone  with  her  he  should  have 
found  it  impossible  to  say  any  words  whatever  except  such 
as  would  be  appropriate  addressed  to  a  young  woman  with 
whom  one  stood  on  such  a  footing?  One  might  talk  to 
her  seriously  about  ideas,  or  lightly  about  friends;  one 
might  be  argumentative  or  witty;  one  might  pay  her  com- 

397 


398  The  Briary-Bush 

pliments,  even  equivocal  and  daring  compliments,  of 
whose  double  meaning  she  would  seem  unconscious;  one 
might,  in  short,  pay  court  to  her  as  one  might  to  a  hundred 
others. 

But  as  for  anything  more — 

Try  it  and  see.  .  .  .  Treat  a  young  woman  to  whom  you 
are  a  perfect  stranger,  with  an  air  of  familiar  lang  syne; 
show  up  her  airs  of  reserve  as  an  absurd  affectation ;  stand 
for  no  nonsense  from  her !  Do  not  let  her  pretend ;  break 
down  that  silly  barrier  of  proud  virginal  constraint.  Remind 
her  that  in  some  previous  existence,  millions  of  years  ago, 
she  was  the  docile  companion  of  your  pillow.  What  right 
has  she  to  that  look  of  a  defiant  vestal?  .  .  .  Yes,  tell 
her  so ! 

Did  you  think  she  was  yours,  that  she  belonged  to  you 
now  and  henceforth  ?  Well  you  are  mistaken.  She  belongs 
to  herself. 

You  remember  a  time  when —  ?  Well,  she  doesn't  remem 
ber.  Pay  your  court !  Perhaps  in  another  thousand  years 
or  so  you  may  get  to  be  fairly  well  acquainted  with  her. 
Not  so  well  acquainted  as  Tom,  who  jests  with  her 
familiarly,  or  Billy,  whom  she  pets,  or  that  young  painter, 
of  whom  she  seems  quite  fond;  but  she  likes  you,  after  a 
fashion — yes,  she  even  encourages  you  to  persevere. 

"Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time 
This  coyness,  lady,  were  no  crime !" 

But  day  after  day,  in  this  preposterous  fashion,  is  slipping 
past;  and  she  says  she  is  going  to  Los  Angeles:  and  who 
are  you  to  prevent  her? 

To  Felix  it  bore  very  much  the  aspect  of  ironic  comedy. 
One  can  often  see  a  joke  when  one  cannot  laugh  at  it.  But 
what,  after  all,  was  the  point  of  this  particular  joke? 

If  it  was  a  demonstration  that  a  married  couple  who  have 
parted  may  continue  to  remain  good  friends,  it  was  eminently 
successful.  That  appeared  to  be  the  way  everybody  took  it. 
After  the  first  shock,  people  seemed  pleased.  He  and  Rose- 
Ann  had  illustrated  the  virtues  of  modernistic  marriage; 


A  Leave-taking  399 

now    they    were    illustrating    the    virtues    of    modernistic 
divorce — something  even  more  exciting! 

Was  this  a  divorce? — the  human  fact  which  the  law  in 
its  laborious  way  confirmed  after  due  and  hypocritic 
consideration !  They  were  apart ;  Rose-Ann  was  going 
away ;  what  did  that  mean  except  a  complete  separation  of 
their  lives?  It  might  be  unthinkable,  and  yet  happen  just 
the  same.  Everything  that  had  happened  was  unthinkable: 
divorce  was  no  more  so  than  any  of  the  rest. 

He  loved  her?  Well,  she  knew  that.  And  she  loved 
him — there  was  no  need  of  questioning  that.  But  she  was 
going  away  nevertheless :  and  he  was  going  to  let  her  go 
away. 

How  the  devil  could  he  stop  her? 

Plead  with  her,  make  promises,  threaten,  weep?  That 
was  child's  play.  Rose-Ann  was  not  going  away  because 
he  had  omitted  to  make  a  scene. 

They  were  past  the  day  of  scenes;  they  had  had  scenes 
enough.  It  wasn't  that  she  wanted.  Her  going  wasn't  an 
idle  gesture  to  evoke  his  tears.  She  meant  it. 

He  had  never  understood  her ;  he  realized  it  now.  He 
had  had  her  in  his  arms  and  let  her  slip  out  of  them;  and 
he  didn't  know  how  to  win  her  back. 

It  was  precisely  as  if  they  had  never  been  married  at  all. 
He  was  wooing  her  under  difficulties.  He  wasn't  succeed 
ing.  .  .  . 

On  the  evening  before  she  took  her  train  for  Los  Angeles 
— she  had  been  very  sweet  to  him  in  a  touch-me-not  way  all 
that  week — he  said  to  her : 

"Must  you  go,  Rose-Ann?     I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

It  was  hard  to  say  even  so  much.  He  said  it  quietly 
enough :  there  was  no  need  to  dramatize  the  situation.  She 
knew  what  she  was  doing  to  him  in  going  away.  He 
couldn't  ask  for  her  pity. 

She  looked  hastily  around.  She  was  making  fudge  in 
her  dismantled  studio  for  a  party  of  friends,  and  Felix 
was  assisting  her.  But  nobody  had  overheard  his — as  it 
seemed — improper  proposal. 


400  The  Briary-Bush 

She  bent  close  to  him,  touching  his  shoulder  with  hers. 
"Don't  spoil  my  good-bye  party!"  she  whispered  reproach 
fully  ;  and  then  stealthily  patted  his  knee  with  her  hand,  as 
if  to  make  amends  for  her  scolding. 

He  did  not  ask,  after  that,  to  see  her  off ;  it  was  she  who 
commanded  his  presence.  He  went  sullenly. 

She  talked  about  everything  which  least  concerned  them, 
and  he  wished  himself  away.  He  hated  her  at  that  moment. 

They  were  in  the  Pullman,  with  one  more  minute  by 
Felix's  watch  before  the  train  started.  He  was  wishing 
it  were  over,  when  she  smiled  reminiscently  and  said  "Do 
you  remember  seeing  me  off  to  Springfield  two  years  ago?" 

"I  remember,"  he  said  doggedly.  Why  did  she  want  to 
torment  him? 

"Only  two  years — and  a  whole  lifetime  to  forget  them 
in,"  she  mused.  "We  ought  to  be  able  to  manage  that." 

He  looked  up,  but  did  not  reply. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me  good-bye?"  she  said. 

He  put  his  arms  about  her — and  once  more,  as  a  long 
time  ago,  they  were  swept  together  in  a  passionate  embrace, 
that  sought  by  its  very  pain  to  impress  this  moment  on 
their  souls,  to  annihilate  time  and  space  for  them,  and 
make  them  remember  it  always.  .  .  . 

And  then  Felix  was  outside  on  the  platform,  and  she 
was  waving  him  a  cheerful  good-bye. 


Back  in  his  apartment,  where  he  had  not  been  since 
morning,  he  found  a  note  from  Give,  asking  him  to  come 
out  and  spent  the  week-end  in  Woods  Point.  Clive  had 
thrown  up  his  job  on  the  Chronicle  to  write  his  long  post 
poned  novel.  As  he  had  told  it,  he  and  Phyllis  had  tossed 
up  a  penny  to  decide  which  should  come  first — his  novel 
or  her  baby  .  .  .  and  he  had  lost. 

The  invitation  annoyed  Felix.  He  didn't  want  to  go  to 
Woods  Point  to  hear  about  Give's  novel. 

He  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  took  out  the  manuscript 
of  his  unfinished  play. 


LXI.  Two  Men  Discuss  a  Girl 


THERE  was  one  thing  about  writing  which  Felix  felt 
had  never  been  done  justice  to  by  those  who  had 
praised  the  art  of  literature — it  could  quite  astonish 
ingly  fill  up  the  hollow  emptiness  of  one's  idle  hours.  This 
quality,  to  be  sure,  it  shared  with  drinking,  opium-smoking, 
mathematics,  pure  science,  pre-pragmatic  philosophy,  chess 
and  the  collecting  of  first  editions,  Japanese  prints  and  post 
age  stamps.  But  it  was  less  debilitating  than  drink  and 
philosophy;  a  surer  refuge  than  chess;  and  there  were  no 
auctions  to  attend.  Moreover  one  could  work  out  the  third 
act  of  a  play  with  a  triumphant  certitude  and  power  such  as 
is  denied  to  people  who  are  engaged  in  trying  to  work  out 
conclusions  in  their  personal  lives. 

When  he  finished  his  play,  late  in  January,  he  was  appalled 
to  find  that  he  had  nothing  with  which  to  occupy  his 
spare  time.  ...  Of  course,  he  might  write  his  play  over 
again.  But  he  was  angry  at  that  play,  now  he  had  finished 
it.  It  had  ended  happily.  Couldn't  one  end  anything 
happily  except  on  paper  ? 

On  a  sudden  impulse,  he  went  to  the  railway  station  one 
evening  and  inquired  what  time  a  train  left  for  Springfield. 
He  had  got  to  thinking  of  Rose-Ann's  father.  For  some 
reason  he  wanted  to  see  him.  .  .  .  He  found  that  there 
was  a  train  leaving  in  half  an  hour  which  would  reach 
Springfield  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  .  .  . 

He  wanted  to  see  Rose-Ann's  father :  if  he  waited  to  make 
sensible  arrangements  and  pack  a  bag,  something  would 
happen  to  keep  him  from  going.  ...  He  bought  a  ticket, 
feeling  of  his  unshaven  cheek  with  ink-stained  fingers  and 

401 


402  The  Briary-Bush 

reflecting  that  he  looked  like  a  tramp — and  went  aboard  the 


tram. 


The  streets  of  Springfield  were  covered  with  new  fallen 
snow.  There  were  apparently  no  street  cars  running  at 
that  hour.  Felix  started  to  walk  toward  the  Prentiss 
residence. 

He  walked  for  an  hour.  It  was  still  dark  when  he  reached 
the  big  house  on  the  corner.  As  he  approached  from  a 
side-street  he  could  see  a  light  burning  in  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Prentiss's  study,  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

The  ground  slanted  upward  from  the  street,  and  Felix 
climbed  the  stone  coping  and  scrambled  up  into  the  back 
yard.  Going  up  a  terrace  at  the  back  end  of  the  lot,  he 
could  see  into  the  window  of  the  study  upstairs.  Rose- Ann's 
father  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  an  unlighted  cigar  in 
his  mouth,  not  reading  or  writing,  but  just  sitting  there, 
looking  at  the  lamp.  Felix  watched  him.  Once  he  moved 
abruptly,  and  shifted  his  unlighted  cigar  from  one  corner 
of  his  mouth  to  the  other,  and  then  sat  quietly  as  before, 
looking  at  the  lamp. 

Felix  moved  incautiously,  and  stumbled  off  the  terrace, 
covering  himself  with  snow.  He  stood  up  and  brushed  it 
off,  and  then  went  down  by  the  back  porch  underneath  the 
studio  window.  A  memory  of  Eddie  Silver,  throwing 
dollars  at  the  window  of  his  Canal  street  home,  came  into 
his  mind,  and  he  felt  in  his  pocket  for  a  coin  and  rather 
cautiously  threw  it  up  at  the  window. 

It  went  wide  of  the  mark.  He  threw  another  and  it 
tinkled  sharply  against  the  glass.  He  stepped  back,  and  he 
could  see  a  shadow  on  the  window-pane  where  Rose-Ann's 
father  had  moved  between  it  and  the  lamp. 

He  waited  a  half-minute,  and  threw  a  third  coin.  It 
rapped  squarely  against  the  pane,  and  a  moment  later  the 
window  was  raised  and  Rose-Ann's  father  had  leaned  out. 
His  unlighted  cigar  was  still  in  his  mouth,  and  a  lock  of 
his  grey  hair  fell  forward  from  the  back  of  his  head, 


Two  Men  Discuss  a  Girl  403 

waving  like  a  plume.     He  saw  Felix  standing  in  the  snow. 

For  a  moment  the  two  stared  at  each  other,  and  then 
Rose-Ann's  father  leaned  out  still  further  and  pointed  down 
ward  with  an  angular  arm.  Felix  pointed  toward  the  porch 
inquiringly,  and  Rose-Ann's  father  nodded  emphatically. 
Then,  it  being  clear  that  they  understood  each  other,  he 
shut  the  window. 

Felix  went  up  on  the  porch,  after  stamping  the  snow  from 
his  shoes.  A  light  was  turned  on  in  the  kitchen,  and  the 
door  opened.  Mr.  Prentiss  came  out,  closed  the  door  softly 
behind  him,  and  pressed  Felix's  hand. 

"Come  on  up  to  my  study,"  he  whispered,  "but  be  quiet, 
so  we  won't  wake  everybody  up." 

With  an  air  of  two  conspirators,  they  went  softly  through 
the  kitchen  and  dining  room,  into  the  hall,  and  up  the  stairs. 
When  he  had  closed  his  study  door  behind  them,  Mr.  Prentiss 
spoke  aloud: 

"It's  all  right  now.  Nobody  can  hear  us  up  here."  And 
again  he  shook  hands  with  Felix.  "You  look  done  up,"  he 

said. 

"I  walked  from  the  station,"  said  Felix,  "and  I  fell  down 
in  your  back  yard."  He  laughed.  "I  look  like  a  disreput 
able  character— I  wonder  what  Rose-Ann's  brothers  would 
say  if  they  saw  me  now !" 

"Sit  down,"  said  Rose-Ann's  father,  and  pulled  up  a  chair 
in  front  of  his  own.  "Have  a  cigar?  You'll  find  it  more 
restful  than  those  cigarettes  of  yours.  Try  this  one." 

"Thanks,"  said  Felix. 

Rose-Ann's  father  threw  away  his  gnawed  unlighted  cigar 
and  took  another.  They  lighted  up,  and  smoked  for  a 
moment  in  silence. 

"So  you  came  to  see  me.  ..."  said  Rose- Ann's  father. 
"I  was  thinking  about  coming  up  to  Chicago  to  see 

you.   ..." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Felix,  "that  you  know  what  the  situation 

is?" 

"Mm — yes.  .  .  .  Rose-Ann  never  tells  me  anything, 
have  to  be  a  mind-reader.      But  usually  I  can  figure  out 


404  The  Briary-Bush 

what's  going  on.     When  she  was  here  this  time  it  wasn't 
hard  to  guess  what  the  trouble  was." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Felix.  "It  must  seem  simple  enough 
to  any  one  on  the  outside.  ..." 

"And  then,"  said  Mr.  Prentiss  with  a  guilty  look,  "I've 
a  habit  of  getting  into  correspondence  with  some  of  Rose- 
Ann's  friends.  They  drop  a  bit  of  news  now  and 
then.  ...  I  used  to  have  quite  a  correspondence  with 
Will  Blake  at  the  Community  House.  That  is  why  I  wasn't 
so  surprised  when  I  heard  you  two  were  married.  .  .  . 
And  lately  I've  been  writing  to  Clive  Bangs — very 
interesting  young  man :  He  tells  me  about  a  novel  he's 
writing;  and  sometimes  he  puts  in  a  word  or  two  about 
Rose- Ann;  not  very  much,  but  then  I  know  Rose- Ann;  so 
I  can  figure  things  out.  ...  I  had  a  letter  from  him 
today.  ..." 

"What  does  he  say?"  asked  Felix. 

"Nothing  in  particular;  just  that  he  hears  that  Rose- Ann 
is  quite  happy  about  her  work  in  California.'" 

"You  didn't  know  she'd  gone?" 

rtNo — she  never  tells  me  anything.  Not  until  a  long  time 
after  it's  happened." 

"Well,  were  you  surprised?" 

Rose-Ann's  father  puffed  on  his  cigar.  "No — I  can't  say 
that  I  was  surprised  exactly.  I've  known  her  a  long  time." 

"And  I've  only  known  her  a  little  more  than  two  years," 
said  Felix. 

"She  always  was  a  difficult  child  to  manage,"  said  Mr. 
Prentiss.  "Not  that  I  was  ever  any  good  at  managing  her. 
I  just  let  her  have  her  own  way." 

"I  seem  to  be  pursuing  the  same  tactics,"  said  Felix 
grimly. 

Rose-Ann's  father  rose  and  walked  across  the  room  and 
back,  his  thumbs  locked  behind  his  back,  the  cigar  still  in 
his  mouth. 

He  paused  before  Felix.  "Well,"  he  demanded  defen 
sively,  "what  else  can  we  do?" 

"That's   what  I'd  like  to   know,"   said  Felix.     He  laid 


Two  Men  Discuss  a  Girl  405 

down  his  cigar,  looked  at  it  with  disapproval  and  lighted 
one  of  his  own  cigarettes. 

"Is  it — is  it  all  over  between  you?"  asked  Rose- Ann's 
father  softly  and  rather  timidly,  looking;  down  at  Felix. 

"It  looks  very  much  that  way,"  said  Felix  gloomily. 

"I  was  afraid  so,"  said  Rose-Ann's  father  sadly,  "I  was 
afraid  so." 

He  walked   away,   puffing  out  fierce  clouds  of   smoke. 

"It's  my  fault,"  said  Felix. 

"Mm — yes — yes,"  said  Rose-Ann's  father  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room  where  he  had  halted  with  his  back  to 
Felix.  "Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"I  was  unfaithful  to  her,"  said  Felix  doggedly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Rose-Ann's  father  hastily  from  his  corner. 
"That  can  happen,  too.  Women  are— they  drive  you  to  it.'" 

Felix  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

Rose-Ann's  father  turned  around  to  face  him.  "I'm  an 
old  man,"  he  said  apologetically,  "and  a  priest.  You  can't 
expect  me  to  take  things  like  that  as  seriously  as  you  young 
folks  do.  I  hear  about  the  sins  of  the  flesh  too  often  to  be 
very  much  impressed  with  them." 

"I   just  thought  you  ought  to  know,"  murmured   Felix. 

"Well,  now,  to  get  to  the  point,"  said  Mr.  Prentiss,  "what 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Felix.  "I'm  trying  to  consider  Rose- 
Ann's  happiness.  .  .  .  She  seems  to  be  able  to  get  along 
without  me.  ..." 

"Seems  to  be?  seems  to  be?  You  don't  seem  so  certain 
of  it  yourself  ?" 

"If  she  can  be  happy  with  some  one  else,  why  should  I 
interfere?"  Felix  muttered. 

'Who  is  this  some  one  else?"  asked  Rose- Ann's  father, 
taking  up  his  march  across  the  room.  "Some  >one  in 
California?" 

"Yes,  a  poet.  .  .  .  I've  my  own  little  system  of 
espionage,  too.  I  got  very  chummy  with  the  art  editor  of  the 
Motion  Picture  World  before  he  left,  and  he  writes  me  all 
the  gossip.  .  .  .  Besides  I've  Rose-Ann's  description  of 


406  The  Briary-Bush 

him  in  her  last  letter  to  me — we're  still  friends,  you  know. 
'Tall,  awkward,  black-haired,  blazing  black-eyed' — sounds 
quite  romantic." 

"Another  one  of  her  young  geniuses,"  said  Rose-Ann's 
father  with  a  sigh. 

"Another?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  She's  always  had  an  eye  for  young  genius. 
Queer-looking  specimens  usually  .  .  .  you  should  have 
seen  the  one  she  brought  home  from  Chicago  once.  Name 
was — Dick,  Dick  something.  A  poet.  Never  heard  what 
became  of  him,  but  I  imagine  that  he  died  of  drugs." 

"Was  she  in  love  with  him?" 

"It's  hard  to  say.  I  don't  know  whether  she^  ever  been 
in  love." 

"What!" 

Rose-Ann's  father  came  to  a  halt  again.  "Oh,  yes,  she 
married  you;  but  she  ran  away  from  you.  .  .  .  And  the 
nearest  I  can  come  to  telling  you  why,  is  that  I  suspect  she 
ran  away  because  she  was  afraid  she  would  love  you.  .  .  . 
If  that  sounds  foolish,  just  put  it  down  to  the  maunderings 
of  an  old  man." 

"It  doesn't  sound  foolish  to  me,"  said  Felix.  "It  sounds — 
true." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  something  else.  I  imagine  she's 
nearer  to  being  in  love  with  you  now  than  she  was  when 
she  married  you!  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"Perhaps  it's  only  because  it's  what  I  wish  to  believe," 
said  Felix,  "but  it  sounds  like  gospel." 

"There's  such  a  thing  as  being  afraid  of  falling  in  love," 
mused  Rose-Ann's  father.  "I  think  she  married  you  because 
she  thought  she  would  be  safe  from  that  danger — I  know  it 
doesn't  sound  very  complimentary  to  you,  but  maybe  you 
know  what  I  mean — and  she  ran  away  from  you  because  she 
found  out  she  was  mistaken." 

"I  know,"  said  Felix,  "she's  always  been  afraid  of 
love.  ...  So  have  I,  for  that  matter." 

"That's  why  she  chose  you." 

"Yes." 


Two  Men  Discuss  a  Girl  407 

"Well,  there  you  are.     I'm  afraid  this  doesn't  help  the 
situation  any."     Mr.  Prentiss  moved  away,  puffing  his  cigar. 
"So  you  think  it's  no  use?" 
"The  question  is,"  said  Rose-Ann's  father,  "can  you  tame 

her?" 

Tame  her !     Felix  remembered  suddenly  the  conversation 
he   had   had   wth    Rose-Ann    at   their    restaurant    rendez 


vous. 


Rose-Ann's  father  sighed.     "I've  never  tried.   ..." 
"Neither  have  I,"  said  Felix.     "It  might  be  worth  while !" 
Rose-Ann's  father  looked  at  him  quizzically,  and  for  the 

first  time  Felix  felt  in  his  kindly  smile  the  cynical  quality 

which  Rose-Ann  had  referred  to  more  than  once. 

Rose-Ann's  father  shook  his  head.     "You're  too  much  like 

me,"  he  said. 

"I'm  her  husband,  confound  it,"  said  Felix,  jumping  up. 

"Where  is  my  hat?" 

Rose-Ann's  father  regarded  him  sympathetically.     "You 

won't    stay    to    breakfast?"    he    said.     "Well— good    luck. 

young  man!" 


LXIL  Theory  and  Practice 


AT  the  end  of  the  second  day  out  on  the  Santa  Fe, 
Felix  had  begun  to  leave  winter  behind;  the  desert 
was  blossoming  with  strange  white  and  scarlet 
flowers;  and  the  next  morning  he  rode  past  orange-groves 
golden  with  fruit  and  white  with  bloom,  and  quaint  little 
rose-gardens  at  the  way-stations,  toward  that  purple  infinite 
depth  along  the  horizon  which  began  to  lift  itself  into  the 
white  peaks  of  a  mountain  range.  Felix  had  been  vaguely 
aware  that  the  climate  of  southern  California  was  supposed 
to  differ  from  that  of  the  Great  Lakes,  but  to  be  riding  out 
of  a  world  of  ice  and  snow  straight  into  the  heart  of  spring, 
seemed  to  him  at  once  miraculous  and  auspicious.  The 
green  and  gold  of  this  new  world  was  significant  to  him 
not  as  a  fact  of  geography,  but  as  a  magical  response  of 
nature  to  his  heart's  impatience.  It  was  a  promise  of 
happiness. 

Felix  was  in  need  of  some  such  happy  auspice  to  hearten 
him.  The  determination  with  which  he  had  started  out  had 
been  undermined  by  two  days  and  nights  of  solitary  thought. 
Sometimes  he  felt  like  a  martyr  going  to  the  stake;  and 
sometimes  like  a  fool.  But  he  was  upheld  by  a  theory. 

It  was  the  latest  of  all  his  theories  concerning  life  in 
general  and  himself  and  Rose-Ann  in  particular;  and  he 
had  resolved  to  act  upon  that  theory  at  all  costs,  no  matter 
how  absurd  it  might  at  any  moment  seem. 

His  theory  was  this:  that  he  and  Rose- Ann  were 
married.  .  .  . 

The  question  of  how  married,  whether  by  the  authority 
of  the  State  of  Illinois,  or  by  their  own  free  will  and 
consent,  was  not  permitted  to  be  raised;  for  if  once  one 

408 


Theory  and  Practice  409 

started  in  considering  questions  like  that,  one  got  nowhere ! 
The  how  of  anything  in  the  world  was  a  question  one  might 
debate  for  ever.  Plato  and  H.  G.  Wells— St.  Paul  and 
Bernard  Shaw— Tolstoi  and  Nietzsche— Dante  and  Milton— 
and  Edward  Bok.  ...  the  sages  had  never  agreed  what 
marriage  was.  Some  said  it  was  a  social  arrangement,  some 
an  agreement  between  two  individuals,  some  a  mystical 
sacrament;  others  considered  it  a  necessary  evil;  and  still 
others  a  damned  nuisance.  Felix  himself  had  inclined  to 
the  view  that  it  was  a  relic  of  barbarism,  connected  in  some 
way  with  those  other  barbaric  institutions,  Private  Property 
and  the  State.  Perhaps  it  was ;  but  that  was  not  the  point. 
Whether  as  a  survival  of  the  barbaric  idea  of  possession  or 
by  common  understanding  and  consent,  whether  by  the 
majestic  force  of  law  or  by  private  agreement,  whether  by 
sensual  habitude  or  as  an  outward  and  visible  sign  of  some 
inward  and  spiritual  grace— they  were  man  and  wife. 

That  seemed  to  simplify  the  situation  immensely.  The 
relations  of  two  individuals,  as  such,  were  infinitely  complex 
and  incalculable;  but  the  relations  of  man  and  wife  were 
something  that  the  mind  could  comprehend.  Thus— what 
had  happened,  as  an  incident  in  the  history  of  two  human 
bundles  of  emotions  and  ideas,  was  a  mystery  profound 
and  unfathomable;  but  as  an  incident  in  the  history  of  a 
marriage,  it  was  no  mystery  at  all— it  was  just  a 
quarrel.  .  .  .  Married  people  often  quarreled.  Why? 
Perhaps  because  they  were  married.  .  .  .  And— generally 
—they  made  up.  Perhaps  for  the  same  reason. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  merge  the  uniqueness  of  one's  woes 
in  the  ocean  of  generality— to  feel  that  in  this  very 
perturbation  he  was  representative  of  a  vast  class;  that  even 
here  he  was  simply  a  husband! 

And  the  solution  of  his  difficulties  was— this  being  the 
conclusion  to  which  his  theory  led— to  try  to  behave  like 
any  other  husband  in  the  same  circumstances.  Not— he 
was  quite  certain  of  this— not  like  Felix  Fay.  Not  like  a 
young  man  who  has  read  learned  books  on  psychology. 
But  like  a  husband.  .  .  . 


41 0  The  Briary-Bush 

He  had  elaborated  his  theory  in  the  spare  moments  of 
twenty-four  hours  devoted  to  arranging  his  affairs  at  the 
office  so  that  he  could  be  gone  for  an  indefinite  period. 
His  first  impulse  had  been  to  take  the  train  and  let  his  job 
go  hang;  but  a  young  man  who  has  just  discovered  that  he 
is  a  husband  realizes  the  significance  of  a  job  in  its  relation 
to  his  marriage.  If  he  failed  in  his  errand,  the  job  did 
not  matter ;  but  it  mattered  very  much  if  he  succeeded.  .  ...  J 
And  yet — he  could  not  explain  his  predicament  to  any  one; 
his  very  dignity  as  a  husband  was  bound  up  in  his  not 
admitting  that  anything  had  gone  wrong  with  his  marriage. 
He  had  to  think  up  some  plausible  lie  to  tell  the  managing 
editor.  His  play — Los  Angeles — the  moving  pictures — five 
thousand  dollars — a  chance  to  direct  it  personally  ...  a 
lie  like  that  was  the  sort  of  thing  people  liked  to  believe. 
The  mention  of  five  thousand  dollars  ought  to  convince  any 
managing  editor.  .  .  .  And  it  did. 

The  afternoon  before  he  took  the  train,  Felix  had  gone 
to  see  old  Mrs.  Perk  at  the  Community  House  Theatre. 
She  was  still  there,  sewing  costumes.  He  threaded  a  needle 
for  her.  They  gossiped  for  a  while.  Then  he  asked  her 
suddenly, 

"Granny  Perk,  did  you  ever  run  away  from  your 
husband?" 

A  delicious  smile  of  reminiscence  stole  over  her  plump 
old  face. 

"Yes,  bless  your  heart,  I  did !"  she  said.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  recalled  to  her  some  exquisite  and  delicious  adventure. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  was  young,"  she  said,  as  if  that 
explained  much.  "I  was  a  girl  as  liked  to  have  my  own 
way.  And  so,"  she  said  proudly,  "one  day,  I  took  the  bit  in 
my  teeth  and  ran  away!" 

She  put  her  chin  in  her  plump  hand  and  contemplated 
her  memories. 

"It  sounds  very  exciting,"  said  Felix. 

"Exciting's  no  name  for  it,"  said  Granny  Perk.  "It  was 
just  regular  sinful!" 

"What  did  you  do,  Granny  Perk?"  he  asked  curiously. 


Theory  and  Practice  411 

She  straightened  up,  and  looked  at  him  severely. 

"I  wouldn't  be  putting  ideas  into  the  heads  of  young 
folks  that  are  well  brought  up  and  content  with  things  as 
they  find  them,"  she  said.  "Nowadays  the  boys  and  girls 
talk  as  they  should  not,  but  they  behave  proper  enough. 
It  was  different  in  my  time.  I  wouldn't  say  Boo  to  a 
goose — but  I  was  a  wild  one  for  all  that.  But  I'm  not  one 
to  corrupt  the  youth  of  the  land.  So  ask  me  no 
questions !" 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  said  Felix.  "What  did  your  husband 
do  when  you  ran  away?" 

"Why,  he  came  after  me,  to  be  sure,  and  brought  me 
home." 

"And  you  lived  happily  ever  after?"  asked  Felix, 
laughingly. 

"Oh,  well  now,  I  guess  we  got  along  as  well  as  most," 
she  said.  "I've  nothing  to  complain  of.  ..." 

Did  human  life  go  to  that  pattern,  Felix  wondered.  And 
if  so,  what  was  the  use  of  all  his  speculations  and  emotions? 
He  wished  he  could  go  after  Rose-Ann  in  the  mood  of 
Granny  Perk's  husband,  to  whom  it  had  been  the  most 
inevitable  thing  in  the  world.  As  it  was,  he  had  to  brace 
himself  against  intellectual  doubts  for  two  days  and  nights 
with  an  intellectual  theory:  the  theory  that  he  was  Rose- 
Ann's  husband  after  all. 

If   he   could   just    remember  that — whatever    happened! 

How  does  a  husband  behave  on  such  an  occasion  ?  With 
firmness?  That  seemed  rather  absurd.  With  a  tactful 
brutality?  Felix  sighed.  It  would  be  hard  to  enact  this 
difficult  role.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  spring — miraculously  spring  in  the  dead  of 
winter,  and  he  was  going  to  Rose- Ann!  Yucca-blooms 
and  cactus-blossoms,  roses  and  oranges,  warm  sunlight 
and  the  green  of  riotous  vegetation — spring! 

It  was  noon  on  Saturday  that  he  reached  Los  Angeles. 
He  went  to  a  hotel,  and  lunched.  Then  he  took  the  Pacific 
Electric  to  Santa  Monica.  .  .  .  Rose-Ann  lived  in  Santa 
Monica. 


412  The  Briary-Rush 

2 

When  Rose-Ann  reached  her  apartment  in  Santa  Monica, 
after  a  leisurely  lunch  in  Los  Angeles,  and  turned  her  key 
in  the  lock,  she  heard  some  one  inside  spring  up  and  come  to 
the  door.  It  was  opened  for  her,  and  Felix  stood  there 
smiling. 

"How  did  you  get  in?"  she  demanded  in  surprise. 

"Never  mind  how  I  got  in,"  he  said.     "I'm  here." 

"It's  a  matter  of  some  importance  to  me  how  you  got  in," 
she  retorted,  edging  around  him  into  the  room  and  putting 
her  purse  on  the  little  table.  "I  am  known  here  as 
Miss  Prentiss.  The  people  here  suppose  me  to  be  un 
married.  ..."  she  paused.  "How  did  you  get  in?" 

"I  walked  in.   ...   You  had  left  your  door  unlocked." 

"Oh!" 

"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

She  relaxed  her  attitude  of  defence,  and  came  over  to 
give  him  her  hand.  "Forgive  me,  Felix,  for  being  so 
sensitive.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  As  well  as  surprised." 

Her  last  remark  was  a  demand  for  explanations.  .  .  . 
Should  he  tell  her  why  he  had  come?  Or  dissemble  his 
intentions  ?  Courage ! 

"You  know  why  I  came,"  he  said. 

She  was  on  guard  again  instantly  at  the  challenge  in  his 
voice. 

"No.   .    .    .   Why?" 

"Guess !" 

He  had  only  his  theory  to  uphold  him.  Never  had  she 
seemed  more  utterly  alien  than  she  became  in  that  moment. 
There  was  a  cool  surprise  in  her  manner,  and  he  felt  as 
though  he  had  committed  some  stupid  insolence. 

She  did  not  reply,  but  only  looked  at  him.  He  was 
making  up  his  mind.  .  .  .  Now  was  the  time  when  any 
husband  in  the  world  would  assert  his  mastery  of  the 
situation.  A  contemptuous  phrase  came  into  his  mind: 
"cave-man  stuff!" 

As  if  she  were  reading  the   thoughts  in  his  mind,  her 


Theory  and  Practice  413 

cheeks   grew    red   and   then    white,    and   her   eyes   blazed 
dangerously.     Every  muscle  was  taut. 

He  took  one  step  toward  her ;  and  in  that  instant  a 
wild  frightened  look  came  into  her  eyes  .  .  .  like  that 
in^an  animal's  caught  in  a  trap.  He  turned  away,  saw  a 
chair  before  him,  and  sat  down,  sick  at  heart.  No,  he 
would  rather  fail,  than  succeed — that  way. 

When  he  looked  up,  she  was  standing,  a  little  dizzily, 
beside  the  table,  steadying  herself  with  her  hand. 

His  theory  had  been  wrong.  ...  It  wasn't  husband  and 
wife — it  was  himself  and  Rose- Ann. 

And  yet — was  she  despising  him?     Well,  let  her. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  town?"  she  asked,  quite 
naturally. 

"I   arrived   this   noon,"   he   answered   quietly. 

"Then  you  haven't  seen  anything  yet." 

"No." 

"There  are  some  lovely  places." 

"I  suppose  so." 

"I'll  show  you  about,  if  I  may.     I'd  like  to." 

"I  sha'n't  be  here  long,"  he  said.  "Only  a  few  days." 
Since  he  had  failed,  he  might  as  well  go  back  quickly. 

"I'm  sorry  you  can't  stay  longer,"  she  said — wistfully, 
it  seemed. 

That  silly  lie  he  had  told  to  the  managing  editor  to  save 
his  dignity,  came  into  his  mind.  It  would  save  his  dignity 
here  too. 

"I  came  to  see  the  moving  picture  people  about  my 
play,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  did  Winters  write  you  about  it?" 

"Winters?     No." 

"I  told  him  about  it,  and  he  was  very  much  interested." 

How  utterly  absurd !  His  play  a  movie !  .  .  .  Still, 
under  the  circumstances,  he  could  hardly  say  that  to 
her.  .  .  . 

"You  haven't  settled  anything  finally,  have  you  ?"  she  went 
on.  "Because  you  really  ought  to  see  Winters.  I'll  in 
troduce  you,  if  you  wish." 


414  The  Briary-Bush 

"That  will  be  fine,"  he  said  mechanically.  He  wished  he 
could  tell  her  it  was  a  lie ;  but  that  would  be  a  confession  of 
his  purpose  in  coming — and  his  failure. 

"What  are  you  doing  this  afternoon?"  she  pursued. 

"Nothing,"  he  said. 

She  laughed.  "You  might  be  sociable  and  invite  me  to 
tea!" 

He  pulled  himself  together.  He  must  play  this  thing 
out  somehow.  It  was  only  for  a  few  days. 

"Tea  ?"  he  repeated  stupidly. 

"Can't  you  come?  Then  how  about  dinner? — No — " 
she  bit  her  lip.  "I  forgot — I've  an  engagement  for  dinner. 
But — I  suppose  I  can  break  it  ...  if  you'd  like  me  to." 

"No,  don't  break  your  dinner  engagement.  I  can  come 
to  tea,"  he  said. 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said  appealing,  "I  want  to  be 
good  friends  with  you,  Felix!" 

"I  see  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be,"  he  said.  .  .  . 
That  wasn't  very  well  done — he  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
better  than  that.  .  .  .  "It  will  be  very  nice  to  have  tea  with 
you." 

"Have  you  seen  the  Palisades?"  she  asked. 

"No." 

"No,  of  course  not.   ..." 

"The  Palisades  ?"     He  appeared  inquiringly  interested. 

"Pergolas  and  palm-trees.  You'll  like  it.  We'll  go  there 
for  a  walk." 

He  smiled.     "That  will  be  lovely !" 

Rose-Ann  put  on  her  hat,  and  looked  at  it  in  the  mirror. 
It  did  not  satisfy  her,  and  she  went  to  a  closet  for  another. 
She  viewed  herself  with  dissatisfaction,  and  then  turned  to 
him  and  said  lightly, 

"Wait  for  me  downstairs,  Felix,  while  I  change  into  some 
fresh  things — I  get  so  tired  of  my  work-clothes." 

He  was  swept  with  a  sudden  uncontrollable  anger,  so 
that  he  trembled  as  he  stood  up.  ...  It  was  strange  that 
this  petty  humiliation,  and  not  the  thought  of  losing  her 
for  ever,  should  destroy  his  self-possession!  He  was 


Theory  and  Practice  415 

ashamed  of  himself.  He  went  toward  the  door.  .  .  . 
Once  outside,  he  would  go  away  and  go  home  and  never 
see  her  again.  .  .  . 

She  followed  him  to  the  door  and  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders;  and  then  they  were  in  one  another's  arms. 

3 

Rose-Ann  began  to  cry. 

"We've  spoiled  it  all,"  she  said. 

"How  have  we  spoiled  it?"  he  asked  tenderly  but 
troubledly.  "You  love  me.  .  .  ." 

"I  love  you.  ...  I  think  so.  Or  at  least  I  was  terribly 
lonely  for  you.  But — " 

"But  what?" 

"This  only  makes  it  so  much  harder.  This — this  hasn't 
changed  my  mind,  Felix."  She  sat  up  on  the  couch. 

"I  shall  never  let  you  leave  me  now." 

"I'm  afraid — you'll  have  to  find  some  other  way  of 
keeping  me." 

"I  shall,"  he  said  defiantly. 

"I — hope  so,  Felix.  ...  I  wish  I  could  feel  that  I 
was  really  and  truly  your  wife.  I  don't — yet." 

"Then,"  he  said  slowly,  "play  at  being  my  wife — for 
a  while.  Can  you  do  that?" 

"I've  played  at  it  for  nearly  two  years.  It  was  nice 
enough.  I  guess  I  can — a  little  longer.  Do  you  suppose 
that  is  what  it  will  come  to? — just  playing  at  being  married, 
Felix?" 

"No.     Never.     We'll   find   the   answer   this   time." 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know.     We'll  have  to  talk  everything  out.   ..." 

"We've  talked  so  often,  Felix!" 

"Once  more !" 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  not  now.  Let's  play  at  being  happy 
first.  Shall  we  go  outdoors?" 

"Yes." 

"And  have  our  tea.  .  .  .  Felix,  you  will  love  the  palm- 
trees  !  I'll  put  on  my  prettiest  frock — for  you." 


LXIII.  In  Play 


BY  an  unspoken  agreement  they  postponed  their  dis 
cussion  from  hour  to  hour.     They  were  too  happy 
to  want  to  question  that  happiness.     For  the  moment 
all   was   well. 

They  were  playing  at  being  married;  playing  that  every 
thing  was  all  right.  .  .  .  And  the  very  fear  which  lurked  in 
the  back  of  their  minds  of  that  impending  hour  when  they 
must  reopen  old  wounds,  heightened  the  beauty  of  the 
present  moment. 

They  loitered  on  "the  Palisades,"  under  palm-trees,  in  the 
hot  sunshine,  and  drank  in  the  cold  breeze  from  the  ocean — 
into  whose  waters,  still  winter-cold,  only  the  sea-gulls 
dared  to  dive. 

They  walked,  under  the  eaves  of  that  low  cliff- wall 
along  the  shore,  among  the  few  early  holiday-makers,  and 
the  mothers  who  had  brought  their  children  down  to  play 
on  the  beach.  They  watched  the  children  feeding  the  sea 
gulls — throwing  their  remnants  of  sandwiches  out  into  the 
water,  for  the  friendly  birds  to  swoop  down  and  take;  and 
the  children  would  clap  their  hands  and  venture  down 
closer  to  the  water's  edge  until  some  icy  wave  would  sweep 
in  and  send  them  scampering  barelegged  back  over  the 
sand — a  lovely  game  of  children  and  birds  and  waves  that 
one  could  watch  for  ever.  .  .  . 

Further  down  the  beach  they  came  to  an  Inn,  where  they 
sat  on  a  balcony  and  drank  tea  with  rice-cakes,  and  watched 
the  sun  sink  lingeringly  through  bank  after  bank  of  cloud 
into  the  very  ocean,  taking  with  it  suddenly  the  day. 

They  went  to  one  of  the  play-places  on  the  beach,  and 
danced  and  dined,  and  rode  on  childish  and  breath-taking 

416 


In  Play  417 

roller-coasting  journeys.  And  at  midnight,  still  unwearied, 
still  flooded  with  the  joy  of  being  alive  and  together,  they 
wandered  back  up  the  shore,  to  its  remoter  haunts,  past  the 
piers  gleaming  with  lights,  into  the  darkness  wanly  illumined 
by  a  young  moon  that  climbed  up  behind  the  ragged  rocks  to 
shoreward. 

"Let's  come  here  tomorrow  night  and  build  a  bonfire," 
said  Rose-Ann.  "And  bring  our  supper." 

They  lay  on  the  sand,  still  warm  from  the  blaze  of  day, 
under  the  cool  wind  from  the  sea,  glad  to  have  put  off  the 
testing  of  their  happiness  another  day. 

They  went  back  to  her  apartment. 

"What  about  this  alleged  poet  of  yours,  Rose- Ann?" 
he  asked  casually. 

"Eugene?" 

"I  didn't  know  his  name.   ..." 

"Well.   ...   he  doesn't  count,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

And  she  kissed  him,  as  if  anxious  to  prove  herself  all  his. 
Tonight  there  should  be  no  cloud  on  their  happiness. 


They  breakfasted  lazily  Sunday  noon  at  a  tea-shop  in 
Santa  Monica,  kept  by  three  quaint  little  Englishwomen; 
they  dawdled  over  their  shirred  eggs  and  toast  and  coffee 
until  mid-afternoon,  talking.  Their  table  was  on  a  porch 
under  a  stucco  archway,  half  screened  from  the  road  by 
a  trellis  covered  with  roses. 

"Everything  is  too  beautiful,"  said  Rose- Ann.  "What 
have  we  done  to  deserve  this?" 

"Would  you  like  to  live  here — always?"  he  asked. 

"I'd  like  to  have  been  a  child  here,"  she  said.  "But  the 
mid-western  winter  has  got  into  my  blood.  I  guess  I  want 
to  see  snow  again !" 

"It  does  seem  immoral,"  he  laughed,  " — flowers  in  Feb 
ruary  !" 

"I  may  go  away,"  she  said.  "Soon.  .  .  .  But  not  back 
to  Chicago." 

"Why?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 


418  The  Briary-Bush 

"This — this  magazine  adventure — is  over.  ...  I  was 
working  to  become  editor.  And  now  they've  offered  me  the 
position.  And  I  don't  want  it.  Isn't  it  funny?  It  just 
doesn't  mean  anything  to  me.  ...  I  shall  try  something 
different.  ..." 

"So  shall  I,"  he  said  unexpectedly.  "I'm  tired  of  my 
job,  too." 

She  smiled.  "When  you've  made  your  fortune  in  the 
movies — " 

"That  was  all  a  damned  lie,  Rose-Ann.  I  haven't  the 
slightest  idea  of  selling  anything  to  the  movies." 

"You've  no  idea  how  easy  it  is/'  she  said. 

"Then  that's  another  reason  for  my  not  being  interested," 
he  said.  "I'm  tired  of  easy  things.  ...  I  lied  to  the 
managing  editor  to  get  to  come  out  here.  It  was  too  easy. 
It's  all  too  easy.  .  .  .  No,  I'm  in  earnest  about  it. — I 
came  to  Chicago  expecting  to  have  to  fight  my  way.  Chicago 
was  too  damned  nice  to  me.  I've  been  living  in  a  paste 
board  world  ever  since.  Look  at  my  job — I  come  and  go 
when  I  please;  and  I  can  say  anything  I  like," 

"The  Fortunate  Youth!"  she  murmured. 

"The  Intellectual  Playboy,"  he  said.  "I  can  say  what  I 
like — because  nobody  cares.  That's  the  truth.  There's 
nothing  heroic  in  differing  with  the  crowd  when  the  crowd 
pays  you  to  do  it." 

"Do  you  want  to  be  heroic,  Felix?" 

"Yes.  I'd  like  to  live  in  a  world  where  ideas  counted 
for  something — where  people  might  put  you  in  jail  if  you 
disagreed  with  them.  Then  it  would  be  worth  while  to  have 
opinions  of  one's  own.  One  could  find  out  whether  one 
really  believed  in  one's  ideas !" 

"Find  out— how?" 

"By  suffering  for  them  a  little." 

"You  are  a  Puritan!" 

"It's  not  that.  ...  I  want  the  feeling  of  other  minds 
resisting  the  impact  of  my  own,  as  sword  clashes  with  sword. 
How  can  I  know  whether  my  ideas  are  true  unless  they 


In  Play  419 

are  put  to  that  test?  But  I'm  let  think  as  I  please.  It's 
not  a  battle,  it's  a  sleight-of-hand  performance.  It's 
vaudeville." 

"I  didn't  know  you  felt  that  way  about  your  work, 
Felix." 

"You  want  to  throw  up  your  job,  Rose- Ann.  Why 
shouldn't  I  ?" 

She  could  not  quite  tell  whether  he  meant  it  or  not. 

"And  write?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yes.  But  that's  not  enough.  I'm  going  to  do  some 
thing  hard. — Oh,  I  could  be  what's  called  a  literary  artist 
.  .  .  the  mot  juste  and  all  that;  that's  easy,  too.  One  has 
only  to  be  sufficiently  bored  or  unhappy.  .  .  .  No,  I  want 
to  deal  with  something  harder  than  words.  I  want  to  build 
something  with  my  hands — a  house,  for  instance.  Why 
not?" 

She  leaned  forward,  smiling.  It  was  sufficiently  clear 
that  he  was  not  in  earnest.  "Where  will  you  build  your 
house?" 

"Not  in  this  golden  land  where  it  is  always  afternoon, 
^.nd  not  too  near  Chicago,  either.  Do  you  remember  the 
Dunes  where  we  picnicked  last  summer?  There,  perhaps. 
Away  from  everything." 

"I  know  where  you  mean.  Yes.  What  kind  of  house 
will  you  build?" 

"I  suppose  that  depends  to  some  extent  on  how  much 
money  I  have.  Let  me  see,  I  had  thrown  up  my  job  a  mo 
ment  ago !  I  take  it  back  again.  Now  that  I  have  a  house 
to  build,  I  shall  need  it.  How  much  do  houses  cost?" 

"It  depends  on  how  large  they  are." 

"This  will  be  large,  but  not  too  large,  I  should  say." 

"Then  it  will  take  a  small,  but  not  too  small,  sum  of 
money." 

"Just  as  I  thought.  And  if  anybody  should  be  so  foolish 
as  to  want  my  play — " 

"But  do  you  really  mean  all  this,  Felix  ?" 

"Why  not?     Why  can't  I  have  a  house  like  other  people? 


420  The  Briary-Bush 

I  realize  more  and  more  as  time  goes  on  that  I  am  not 
essentially  different  from  other  people.  They  want  houses. 
Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"If  you're  in  earnest  about  it,  then  it  isn't  a  house  you 
mean,  Felix.  It's  a  studio.  That  wouldn't  cost  very  much." 

"No.     A  house !"  he  insisted. 

"But  why  a  house?"  she  asked. 

"Why  do  people  want  houses?"  he  countered. 

"But—"  she  said. 

"Yes?" 

"You  want  a  place  to  write  in,  Felix." 

"I  shall  write  in  the  barn,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  is  there  to  be  a  barn?" 

"Don't  you  think  a  barn  would  be  nice?" 

"I  think  a  barn  would  be  lovely.  But  then  what  is  the 
house  for?" 

"I  don't  know,  exactly.  You  see,  I've  never  had  a  house. 
But  people  seem  to  have  found  uses  for  them.  I  would 
settle  down  in  mine  and  await  developments.  In  the  mean 
time,  I  could  live  in  it.  People  do,  don't  they?"" 

She  laughed.  "Yes.  People  do.  ...  But  won't  you  be 
lonely  in  such  a  big  house?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  sha'n't  be  lonely.  Not  in  this  house! 
If  I  am  I  shall  go  talk  to  the  cook." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  smiling,  and  remembering  the 
first  morning  of  their  marriage.  And  for  a  moment  Felix 
felt  that  they  had  drawn  nearer  than  they  had  ever  been  in 
their  lives — as  if  in  this  foolish  dream  of  house-building  he 
had  by  some  inspired  accident  touched  upon  the  secret  of 
happiness.  .  .  .  And  then,  in  his  doubting  mind,  there  rose 
the  fear  that  this  was  an  emotion  shared  only  in  play.  It 
was  too  trivial  a  thing  to  bear  the  burden  of  his  need  of 
reassurance.  No,  the  hurts  which  they  had  inflicted  upon 
each  other  could  not  be  healed  by  a  jest.  .  .  . 

For  another  moment  their  gaze  still  met,  suspiciously,  as 
he  sought  to  surprise  in  her  eyes  the  thoughts,  the  wishes, 
that  lay  mockingly  hidden  behind  that  impenetrable  curtain. 
And  then  they  looked  away. 


In  Play  421 

The  moment  in  which  they  had  seemed  to  understand  each 
other  had  vanished,  leaving  him  with  the  certainty  that  it 
had  never  existed. 

"Come,"  Rose-Ann  cried  gaily,  "we  must  go  on  our  pic 
nic." 


LXIV.  In  Earnest 


SHE  had  never  seemed  more  dazzling  to  him,  and  more 
remote,  than  in  the  hours  that  followed.     They  lay 
on  the  beach  and  watched  the  sunset,  and  wandered 
arm  in  arm  through  the  brief  twilight  into  the  darkness. 
She  was  happy;  and  her  happiness  was  a  mockery  to  him. 
She  was  tender  and  passionate — and  in  that  very  excess  of 
tenderness  and  passion  seemed  to  confess  to  him  that  this  was 
the  end. 

She  was  playing  at  marriage. 

In  the  vast  night  the  moon  rose  slowly  behind  the  hills, 
unseen  but  palely  tinging  the  sky.  They  went  past  stray 
bonfires  far  up  the  shore  until  they  could  see  it,  a  slender 
crescent,  cradled  between  two  hills. 

Its  light  faintly  touched  the  edges  of  the  waves  with  silver. 

"What  would  it  be  like,"  Rose-Ann  wondered,  "to  bathe 
in  icy  moonlight  ?  Shall  we  ?" 

He  remembered  the  time  at  Woods  Point,  the  first  morn 
ing  of  their  marriage  when  she  had  slipped  from  their  warm 
bed  while  he  slept,  to  plunge  into  the  snow.  He  remembered 
the  sudden  loneliness  with  which  he  had  awakened,  and  her 
naked  footprints  in  the  snow.  ...  It  seemed  profoundly 
characteristic  of  all  her  strangeness. 

What  other  woman  in  the  world  would  have  left,  at  dawn, 
the  bed  of  happy  love,  to  keep  such  an  icy  tryst !  It  was 
like  their  whole  married  life:  the  warmth  of  mere  human 
happiness  had  not  satisfied  her;  she  must  go  out  into  the 
bleak  strange  arctic  spaces  of  emotion ;  and  he  must  go,  too. 
.  .  .  Well,  let  her  keep  her  cold  assignation  with  the  moon 
light  alone,  this  time ! 

"No,"  he  said  resentfully,  and  gathered  driftwood  for  a 

422 


In  Earnest  423 

fire,  while  she  undressed  in  the  darkness.  .  .  .  He  saw  her 
go  in,  crying  out  with  delight  at  the  water's  bitter  coldness, 
and  emerge,  white  and  slender  and  dripping  with  silver 
moonlight,  from  the  waves.  .  .  .  And  this  was  the  creature 
he  had  tried  to  make  his  wife!  This  seeker  after  strange 
and  impossible  beauty! 

He  remembered  that  he  had  offered  her,  in  some  play 
ful  madness  that  day,  a  house.  A  house  in  the  environs  of 
Chicago!  Thank  heaven,  she  would  never  know  that  he 
had  been  in  earnest. 

She  had  dried  her  body  miraculously  on  the  tiny  tea-towel 
from  their  lunch-basket  and  resumed  her  clothes  by  the 
time  his  fire  was  alight,  and  she  came  up  laughing  and  hun 
gry,  demanding  food.  He  unpacked  from  the  little  basket 
the 'supper  which  their  hosts  of  the  tea-shop  had  prepared 
for  them.  She  munched  sandwiches  while  he  broiled  bacon 
on  a  stick  over  the  blaze. 

"We  could  do  this  every  night  on  the  Dunes,"  she  said — 
and  his  heart  leaped. 

"Rose-Ann,"  he  said.     "Don't  torment  me." 

She  took  his  hand.  "Do  I  torment  you?"  she  asked.  "I 
don't  mean  to.  I'm  sorry  !" 

Was  it  surrender?  he  wondered — or  some  new  evasion? 

"Our  marriage—"  he  said. 

"Oh!  Must  we  talk  about  it?"  Her  voice  was  wistful. 
"We're  so  happy — as  we  are." 

"As  we  are.  .  .  .  But  what  are  we?"  he  demanded  pain 
fully. 

"Together.   ..."  she  said. 

And  then,  when  he  did  not  speak,  she  asked,  a  little  coldly, 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say,  Felix?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  There  are  so  many  things  to  say. 
...  All  the  things  we  haven't  said.  .  .  ." 

"Must  we  say  them,  Felix?    Well,  then— I'm  sorry." 

"For  what?" 

"For  everything.  .  .  .  Felix,  if  we  had  met  each  other 
for  the  first  time  now — " 

"Yes.  ,  .  ." 


424  The  Briary-Bush 

"We  could   be  very  happy,   I   think.     Oh,   I   know  we 
could!" 

"Have  we  hurt  each  other  so  much,  then  ?"  he  asked  sadly. 
"It's  not  that.  ...  All  that  was  my  fault." 
"No,"  he  said. 

"Yes.     I've  thought  everything  out.     And   sometimes  I 
think  I'm  not  sorry  that  it  happened.     Because  I've  learned 
some  things  I  didn't  know — about  myself." 
'Tell  me." 

"I'd  rather  not.   .    .    .   Felix,  I'm  not  the  same  person  I 
was.     I've  found  things  in  myself  I'm  frightened  of.     Don't 
make  me  tell  them.   ..." 
"I  wish  you  would." 

"They're  not  nice  things,  Felix.   ...   I  woke  up  last 
night  hating  you.   ..."       „  , 
Her  voice  was  shaken. 

"I'm  sorry,  Rose-Ann,"  he  said  contritely.  "You  have  a 
right  to  hate  me." 

"No,"  she  said.  "It's  not  what  you  think.  It's  something 
else — something  you'd  never  guess." 

Suddenly  she  threw  herself  face  down  on  the  sand  and 
began  to  cry. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  drew  herself 
away  from  his  touch  with  a  convulsive  movement.  He 
looked  on,  hurt  and  baffled  and  frightened. 

She  sat  up,  seized  his  hand  and  pressed  it  desperately. 
"Why  can't  I  trust  you  ?"  she  asked. 

He  had  lost  all  clue  to  her  thoughts.  "I  wish  I  could 
help  you,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know — perhaps  I'm  trying  to  fool  myself  again. 
.  .  What  are  you  really  like,  Felix?" 

She  was  looking  away  from  him,  gripping  his  hand,  staring 
blindly  into  the  darkness.  She  seemed  not  to  be  speaking  to 
him.  He  did  not  answer. 

Her  hand  relaxed  its  grip  upon  his,  and  she  said,  drying 
her  tears, 

"I  despise  myself.  .  .  ." 
"For  crying?"  he  asked. 


In  Earnest  425 

"No — for  what  we've  done." 

He  thought  he  knew  what  she  meant.  "For — playing  at 
marriage  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  strangely,  "playing  at  marriage.  .  .  ." 

He  had  a  moment  of  clairvoyance,  a  moment  in  which 
his  mind  saw  into  the  one  same  realm  of  memory  with  hers. 
.  .  .  He  saw  them,  beside  another  camp-fire,  talking.  .  .  . 

"Not  afraid,"  he  repeated  aloud  the  words  she  had  said 
to  him  then,  "not  afraid  of  life  or  of  any  of  the  beautiful 
things  life  may  bring  us.  ..." 

"Felix !"  she  cried  out.     "Don't !" 

He  was  seeing  another  picture,  of  themselves  walking  in 
a  park  under  great  trees  that  lifted  their  shivering  glooms 
to  the  sky.  "Everything,"  she  had  said,  "is  all  right  now." 
What  mockery !  And  he  felt,  again,  forces  that  he  did  not 
understand  hurling  themselves  on  his  heart  crushing  and 
stunning  it.  ... 

"We  were  afraid  of  life,"  he  said.     "We  were  cowards. 
Despise  me,  too." 
"Felix!"  she  cried,  "you  did  care!  ...  I  never  knew!" 


They  looked  into  the  dying  embers  of  the  fire. 

His  mind,  as  by  a  shadowy  wing,  was  touched  with  a 
faint  regret  ...  for  what  ?  .  .  .  for  an  old  dream,  beau 
tiful  in  its  way — a  dream  of  freedom ;  but  a  dream  only— 
and  worthy  only  the  farewell  tribute  of  a  faint  and  shadowy 
regret. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  she  whispered. 

"Let's  build  our  house,   Rose-Ann.     Will  you?" 

"Yes." 


THE   END 


4 


